This, of course, wasn't what Rose said to herself. She just wanted a
scheme, and with ridiculous ease, she got it. She didn't even get it.
There it was staring at her. And the other scheme for the evening frocks
was knocking at the door, too, eager to get in the moment she could give
it a chance. She began studying the girls for their individual
peculiarities of style. Each one of the costumes she made was going to
be for a particular girl, suited, without losing its place in the
general plan, to the enhancement of her special approximation to beauty.
At last, when a shout from Galbraith aroused her to the fact that she
had missed an entrance cue altogether, in her entranced absorption in
these visions of hers, and had caused that unpardonable thing, a stage
wait, she resolutely clamped down the lid upon her imagination and,
until they were dismissed, devoted herself to the rehearsal.
But the pressure kept mounting higher and higher and she found herself
furiously impatient to get away, back to her own private wonderland, the
squalid little room down the street, that had three bolts of cambric in
it and a dressmaker's manikin--the raw materials for her magic!
Rose couldn't draw a bit.
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