curtain, Dick and Sylvia manage to thread their way out of the tangle of
scandal and misconception, and satisfy each other as to the
disinterested quality of their mutual adoration, falling into each
other's arms just as the curtain starts down.

It was not, of course, until after a good many rehearsals that Rose
could have given a connected account of it like that. They worked for
three hours on this first occasion, merely getting through the first
act--a miserable three hours, too, for Rose, owing to a little
misfortune that befell her right at the beginning.

The glow of determination Galbraith had inspired her with, to put her
own shoulder to the wheel and do her very topmost best, for the one
great desideratum, the success of the show, had kept her studying her
little handful of lines long after she supposed she knew them perfectly.
They weren't very satisfactory lines to study--just the smallest of
conversational small change, little ejaculations of delight or dismay,
acquiescence or dissent. But the trouble with them was, they were, for
the most part, exactly the last expressions that a smart young woman of
the type she was supposed to represent would use.

So, remembering what Galbraith had said about everybody down to the last
chorus-man doing the best he knew for the success of the show, Rose
sought him out, for a minute, just before the rehearsal began, and asked
if she might change two of her lines a little.

Galbraith grinned at her, turned and beckoned to the baby-faced man in
spectacles who stood a dozen paces away. "Oh, Mr. Mills!" he called.
"Can you come over here a minute?"

"He's the author," Galbraith then explained to Rose, "and we can't
change this book of his without his permission."

Then, "This is Miss Dane of the sextette," he said to Mills, "and she
tells me she'd like to make one or two changes in her lines."

It didn't need a sensitive ear to detect a note of mockery in this
speech, though Galbraith's face was perfectly solemn. But the face of
the author went a delicate pink all over, and his round eyes stared. "My
God!" he said.

The exclamation was explosive enough to catch the ear of an extremely
pretty young woman who stood near by with her hands in her pockets. She
wore a Burberry raglan and an entirely untrimmed soft felt hat, and she
came over unceremoniously and joined the group.

"Miss Devereux," said the author, with hard-fetched irony, "here's a
chorus-girl in perfect a