She could not,
but for that fact, have forced herself to hunt down bargains so
persistently nor to keep the incidental expense for findings and such,
so low.
At nine-thirty in the morning--an unheard of hour in the theater--the
watchman at the Globe let her in the stage door, and Rose had half an
hour before the arrival of the wardrobe mistress and her assistant, for
looking over the work done since she had left for rehearsal the day
before.
She liked this quiet, cavernous old barn of a place down under the Globe
stage; liked it when she had it to herself before the two sewing women
came and later, when, with a couple of sheets spread down on the floor
she cut and basted according to her cambric patterns, keeping ahead of
the flying needles of the other two. After her own little room, the mere
spaciousness of it seemed almost noble. She even liked it, when, about
half past one in the afternoon, on matinee days, the chorus-girls of the
show now drawing to the end of its run, began dawdling in, passing
shrill jokes with Bill Flynn, the fireman, rummaging through the mail in
the letter-box, casually unfastening their clothes all the while,
preliminary to kimonos and make-up, gathering in little knots about the
sewing-machines and exclaiming in profane delight over the costumes.
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