Goldsmith and her bad taste, of the Poiret
model that had suggested her great idea, of the offer she had made
Galbraith, the way she had bought her dressmaker's form and her bolts of
paper-cambric out of the Christmas rush, and had cut out her patterns in
the dead of nights after rehearsals, up in her little room on Clark
Street. She told him of the wild rush with which the costumes themselves
got made down under the stage at the Globe; of Galbraith's enthusiasm,
of the bargain she'd driven with Goldsmith and Block--the unwittingly
good bargain that had left her a profit of over two hundred dollars. She
told him how Goldsmith and Block had driven a good bargain of their own,
hiring her at her chorus-girl's salary for the last two delirious weeks;
how insanely hard she'd worked, and how, at last, after the opening
performance, Galbraith had offered her a job in New York when he should
be ready for her.
Somehow, while she told it, though it was only occasionally that she
glanced up at him--somehow, as she told it, she seemed to be hearing it
with his ears--to be thinking, actually, the very thoughts that were
going through his mind.
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