“Grant!” said John Galbraith again, and this time his voice had a cutting edge.  “Will you take your place on the stage, or shall I suspend rehearsal until you’re ready?”

For answer she turned and began walking slowly across the room toward the door in the proscenium that led to the stage.  She started walking slowly, but under Galbraith’s eye, she quickened her pace, involuntarily, it seemed, until it was a ludicrous sort of run.  Presently she emerged on the stage, looking rather artificially unconcerned, and the rehearsal went on again.

But just before he gave the signal to the pianist to go ahead, Galbraith with a nod summoned a young man from the wings and said something to him, whereupon, clearly carrying out his orders, he vaulted down from the stage and came walking toward the doorway where Rose was still standing.  The director’s gaze as it flashed about the hall, had evidently discovered more than the sulky chorus-girl.

The young man wasn’t intrinsically formidable—­a rather limp, deprecatory sort, he looked.  But, as an emissary from Galbraith, he quickened Rose’s heart-beat a trifle.  She smiled though as she made a small bet with herself that he wouldn’t be able to turn her out, even in his capacity of envoy.

But he didn’t come straight to Rose; deflected his course a little uncertainly, and brought up before a woman who sat in a folding chair a little farther along the wall.

Rose hadn’t observed her particularly before, though she was aware that one of the “big girls” who had responded promptly to Galbraith’s first call for them, had been talking to her when Rose came in, and she had assumed her to be somebody connected with the show; at least with an unchallengeable right to watch its rehearsals.  But she had corrected this impression even before she had heard what John Galbraith’s assistant said to the woman and what she said to him; for she drew herself defensively erect when she saw him turn toward her, assumed a look of calculated disdain; tapped a foot inadequately shod for Chicago’s pavements in December, although evidently it had experienced them—­gave, on the whole, as well as she could, an imitation of a duchess being kept waiting.

But the limp young man didn’t seem disconcerted, and inquired in so many words, what her business was.  The duchess said in a harsh high voice with a good deal of inflection to it, that she wanted to see the director; a very partic’lar friend of his, she assured the young man, had begged her to do so.  “You’ll have to wait till he’s through rehearsing,” said the young man, and then he came over to Rose.

The vestiges of the smile the duchess had provoked were still visible about her mouth when he came up.  “May I wait and see Mr. Galbraith after the rehearsal?” she asked.  “If I won’t be in the way?”

“Sure,” said the young man.  “He won’t be long now.  He’s been rehearsing since two.”  Then, rather explosively, “Have a chair.”