He struck Rose as being a little flustered and uncertain, somehow, and he now made a tentative beginning of actually bringing a chair for her.

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Rose, and now she couldn’t help smiling outright.  “I’ll find one for myself.”

But, whenever he had begun rehearsing, it was evident that John Galbraith didn’t mean to stop until he got through, and it was a long hour that Rose sat there in a little folding chair similar to the one occupied by the duchess; an hour which, in spite of all her will could do, took some of the crispness out of her courage.  It was all very well to reflect with pitying amusement on the absurdities of the duchess.  But it was evident the duchess was waiting with a purpose like her own.  She meant to get a job in the chorus.  Her rather touching ridiculousness as a human being wouldn’t stand in her way.  It was likely that she had had dozens of jobs in choruses before, knew exactly what would be wanted of her, and was confident of her ability to deliver it.

As Rose’s heart sank lower with the dragging minutes she even took into account the possibility that the duchess had spoken the truth about John Galbraith’s “partic’lar friend.”  Just the mention of a name might settle the whole business.  Then her spirits went down another five degrees.  Here she had been assuming all along that there was a job for either of them to get!  But it was quite likely there was not.  The chorus looked complete enough; there was no visible gap in the ranks crying aloud for a recruit.

When at last, a little after six o’clock, Galbraith said, “Quarter to eight, everybody,” and dismissed them with a nod for a scurry to what were evidently dressing-rooms at the other side of the ball, the ship of Rose’s hopes had utterly gone to pieces.  She had a plank to keep herself afloat on.  It was the determination to stay there until he should tell her in so many words that he hadn’t any use for her and under no conceivable circumstances ever would have.

The deprecatory young man was talking to him now, about her and the duchess evidently, for he peered out into the hall to see if they were still there; then vaulted down from the stage and came toward them.

The duchess got up, and with a good deal of manner, went over to meet him.  Rose felt outmaneuvered here.  She should have gone to meet him herself, but a momentary paralysis kept her in her chair.  She didn’t hear what the duchess said.  The manner of it was confidential, in marked protest against the proximity of a handful of other people—­the blond musical director, the thick pianist in his undershirt, a baby-faced man in round tortoise-shell spectacles, three or four of the chorus people, each of whom had serious matters to bring before the director’s attention.

But all the confidences, it seemed, were on the side of the duchess.  Because, when John Galbraith answered her, his voice easily filled the room.  “You tell Mr. Pike, if that’s his name, that I’m very much obliged to him, but we haven’t any vacancies in the chorus at present.  If you care to, leave your name and address with Mr. Quan, the assistant stage manager; then if we find we need you, we can let you know.”