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As I said, the chief discomforts for Rose in those first ten days on the
road, were not the material ones. Olga's absurd way of ignoring her, the
fact that she attributed their quarrel, for the benefit of the company,
to Rose's jealousy of her success; worst of all, the fact that Rose
couldn't be sure she wasn't jealous of Olga's success, didn't feel at
least, contemplating their reversed positions, more like a failure than
she would have felt had the original girl kept the leading part,--all
this contributed to a discomfort that did matter, that tormented,
abraded, rankled.
It became the core of a sensation that she had turned cheap and shabby;
that the distinction, which with her first entrance into this life, she
had built up between herself and most of her colleagues, was breaking
down; that her fiber was coarsening, her fine sensitiveness becoming
calloused. It troubled her that she should feel so languid an
indifference over the vulgarity of the piece, a vulgarity which, under
Webber's infection, grew more blatant every day.


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