Little Anabel Astor presented as striking a contrast to all this as it
would be possible to imagine. She, too, had attained a good deal of
celebrity in the musical-comedy world--was to be one of the features of
the cast. She'd come up from the ranks of the chorus. She'd been one of
the ponies, years ago, in some of George M. Cohan's productions, and she
was still just a chorus-girl. But a chorus-girl raised to the third, or
fourth, or, if you like, the _n_th power. She had an electric grin, and
a perfectly boundless vitality, which she spent as freely on rehearsals
as on performances. She always dressed for rehearsals just as the chorus
did, in a middy-blouse and bloomers, and she worked as hard as they did,
and even more ungrudgingly.
She was a pretty little thing, with nothing very feminine about
her--even her voice had a harsh boyish quality--and she never looked
prettier to Rose than when, her face flushed with an hour's honest toil,
she would wipe the copious sweat of it off with her sleeve, and panting,
look up with a smile at John Galbraith and an expectant expression,
waiting for his next command, which reminded Rose of the look of a
terrier alert for the stick his master means to throw for him.
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