Olga had been adoring
her with a somewhat embarrassing intensity ever since the night she had
locked her in her room and taught her to talk.
Rose had convicted herself here of a failure in human sympathy, and had
done her best to correct it, without much avail. The stubborn fact was
that, wishing Olga all the good fortune in the world, and being willing
to take any amount of trouble to bring it about, she didn't particularly
like her. And she flinched involuntarily, from the girl's more romantic
and sentimental manifestations. This distaste had been heightened by the
fact that along with Olga's adoration had gone a sense of
proprietorship, with its inevitable accompaniment of jealousy.
Olga bridled every time she found Rose chatting with another member of
the chorus, and when, up in Milwaukee, Patricia had invited her, along
with Anabel, to come up to her room for a little supper after rehearsal,
Olga had been sulky and injured for the whole of the next day.
It was something deeper in Rose than a mere surface distaste that made
all this--the caresses, as well as the sulky exactions--repellent to
her.
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