“That’s the truth, is it?  I mean, there’s nobody who can come down here about three days before we open and call me a kidnaper, and lead you away by the ear?”

“No,” said Rose gravely, “there’s no one who’ll do that.”

“Very good,” he said.  “Tell Quan any name you like.”

The name she did tell him was Doris Dane.

It was a quarter to seven when she came out through the white doors into North Clark Street.  The thing that woke her out of a sort of daze as she trudged along toward her room in the unrelenting rain was a pleasurable smell of fried onions; whereupon she realized that she was legitimately and magnificently hungry.  In any other condition, the dingy little lunch-room she presently turned into, would hardly have invited her.  But the spots on the frayed starchy table-cloth, the streakiness of the glasses, the necessity of polishing knife and fork upon her damp napkin, couldn’t prevent her doing ample justice to a small thick platter of ham and eggs, and a plate of thicker wheat-cakes.

It occurred to her as she finished, that a quarter to eight probably meant the hour at which the rehearsal was to begin.  She’d have to be back at the hail at least fifteen minutes earlier, in order to be dressed and ready.  She had no time to waste; would even have to hurry a little.

She didn’t try to explore for the reason why this discovery pleased her so much.  It was enough that it did.  She flew along through the rain to her tunnel, charged up the narrow stair, and in the unlighted corridor outside her room, collided with her trunk.  Well, it was lucky it had come anyway.  She tugged it into her room after she had lighted the gas.

You might have seen, if you had been there to see, just a momentary hesitation after she’d got her trunk key out of her purse before she unlocked it.  It was a sort of Jack-in-the-box, that trunk.  Would the emotions with which she’d packed it, spring out and clutch her as she released the hasp?  The saving factor in the situation was that it was a quarter past seven.  In fifteen minutes she must be back at North End Hall, getting ready to go to work at her job.  Suppose she hadn’t found a job this afternoon?  The thought turned her giddy.

She plunged into her trunk, rummaged out a middy-blouse, a pair of black silk bloomers, and her gymnasium sneakers, rolled them all together in a bundle, got into her rubbers and her ulster again, and—­I’m afraid there is no other word for it—­fled.

She was one of the first of the chorus to reach the hail and she had nearly finished putting on her working clothes before the rest of them came pelting in.  But she didn’t get out quickly enough to miss the sensation that was exciting them all—­the news that Grant had been dropped.  A few of them were indignant; the rest merely curious.  The indignant ones allowed themselves a license in the expression of this feeling that positively staggered