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And to-night, with her mind full of Rodney--full of that strange
hope that disguised itself as fear, the repulsion was stronger than
ever. She made an effort to conquer it. It would be a shame to throw a
wet blanket on the girl's attempt to enjoy her triumph in her own way.
So Rose kissed her and told her how pleased she was, and good-humoredly
forbore to disclaim, except as her wide smile did it for her, Olga's
extravagant protestations of undying love and gratitude. Rose injected
common-sense considerations where she could. Olga had better get out of
that frock before she ruined it with grease paint, and unless she at
least began to dress pretty soon she'd find herself locked up for the
night in the theater.
"I wouldn't care," Olga said. "You'd be locked up, too. Because you
aren't any further along than I am."
"I'm going to be, though," said Rose, "in about two minutes." The
thought of what John Galbraith's disgust would be, in spite of his
good-natured assurance she needn't hurry, if she really kept him
waiting, set her at her task with flying fingers.


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