But her fears only lasted until she got back to her room and caught a reassuring look at the pattern that was assembled on the form.  After all, the pictures in the lobby weren’t so important as the costumes on the stage.  And as for Galbraith—­well, if he didn’t expect too much of her, that was all the better.

In keeping with the good luck which had attended everything that happened in connection with this first venture of hers, she was able to tell Galbraith that both sets of costumes were done and ready to try on, on the very day he announced that the next rehearsal would be held at ten to-morrow morning at the Globe.  It might very easily have happened, of course, that Rose’s enterprise, together with Galbraith’s partnership in it, had become known here or there, got passed on from one to another, with modifications and embellishments according to fancy, and grown to be a monument of scandal and conjecture.  But nothing is more capricious than the heat-lightning of gossip, and it just chanced that, up to the morning of Rose’s little triumph, no one beyond Galbraith and Rose herself even suspected the identity with Dane of the chorus, of the costumer who was to submit, on approval, gowns for the sextette.  The fact, of course, was bound to come out on the day the company moved over for rehearsals to the Globe, and the event was very happily dramatized for Rose, by her ability to let the costumes appear first and her authorship of them only after their success was beyond dispute.

She persuaded the girls to wait until all six were dressed in the afternoon frocks and until she herself had had a chance to give each of them a final inspection and to make a few last touches and readjustments.  Then they all trooped out on the stage and stood in a row, turned about, walked here and there, in obedience to Galbraith’s instructions shouted from the back of the theater.

It was dark out there and disconcertingly silent.  The glow of two cigars indicated the presence of Goldsmith and Block in the middle of a little knot of other spectators.

The only response Rose got—­the only index to the effect her labors had produced—­was the tone of Galbraith’s voice.  It rang on her ear a little sharper, louder, and with more of a staccato bruskness than the directions he was giving called for.  And it was not his practise to put more cutting edge into his blade, or more power behind his stroke, than was necessary to accomplish what he wanted.  He was excited, therefore.  But was it by the completeness of her success or the calamitousness of her failure?

“All right,” he shouted.  “Go and put on the others.”

There was another silence after they had fled out on the stage again, clad tins time in the evening gowns—­a hollow heart-constricting silence, almost literally sickening.  But it lasted only a moment.  Then, “Will you come down here, Miss Dane?” called Galbraith.