CHAPTER VI

A BUSINESS PROPOSITION

"Why, this was what I wanted to say," said Rose, taking up the broken

conversation as he pulled the shop door to behind him. She didn't go out

on to the sidewalk, but lingered in the recessed doorway. "I thought if

you'd let me fake that evening frock for twenty dollars, and then buy

the little Empire one for Olga Larson--it's only eighty--that the two

would average just about what Mrs. Goldsmith was paying for the others."

"Why not fake the other one too?" he asked.

"It couldn't be done," said Rose decisively. "There's no idea in it, you

see, that just jumps out and catches you. It gets its style from being

so--reserved and so just exactly right. And of course that's true of the

girl herself. She's perfect, just about. But it's a perfection that it's

awfully easy to kill. She kills it herself by the way she does her

hair."

Buzzing around in the back of John Galbraith's mind was an unworded

protest against the way Rose had just killed her own beauty with a thick

white veil so nearly opaque that all it let him see of her face was an

intermittent gleam of her eyes. Keenly aware--a good deal more keenly

aware than he was willing to admit--of the sort of splendor which, but

for the veil, he'd be looking at now, a splendor which nothing short of

a complete mask could hide, he was not quite in the mood to wax

enthusiastic over a beauty so fragile as that of the girl they had been

talking about. There was a momentary silence, broken again, by Rose.

"Of course, you'll want to take a look at her for yourself, before you

decide," she said; "but I'm pretty sure you'll see it." She put a

cadence of finality into her voice. The business between them was over,

it said, and all she was waiting for was a word of dismissal, to nod

him a farewell and go swinging away down the avenue. Still he didn't

speak, and she moved a little restlessly. At last:--

"Do you mind crossing the street?" he asked abruptly. "Then we can talk

as we walk along." She must have hesitated, because he added, "It's too

cold to stand here."

"Of course," she said then. All that had made her hesitate was her

surprise over his having made a request instead of giving an order.

Galbraith turned her north on the vast empty east sidewalk--a highway in

itself broader than many a famous European street, and they walked a

little way in silence.

No observant Chicagoan, Rose reflected, need ever yearn for the wastes

of the Sahara when a desire for solitude or the need of privacy came

upon him. The east side of Michigan Avenue was just as solitary and

despite the difficulty of getting across to it, really a good deal more

accessible. The west side was one unbroken glow of light and though the

Christmas crowds had thinned somewhat with the closing of the shops,

they were still thick enough to have made it difficult for two people to

walk and talk together. A quadruple stream of motors, bellowing warnings

at one another, roaring with suddenly opened throttles, squealing under

sudden applications of the brake, occupied the roadway and served more

than the mere distance would have done, to isolate the pair that had the

east sidewalk all to themselves.

He couldn't be looking for a better place to talk than this, Rose

thought. Why didn't he begin? Probably he'd got started thinking about

something else. A motor coming along near the curb emitted a

particularly wanton bellow, and she saw him jump like a nervous woman,

then stand still and glare after the offender. He must be feeling

specially irritable to-night, she thought.

It was a good diagnosis. And his irritation had, for him, a most unusual

cause. Chorus-girls, principals, owners, authors, costumers, were

frequently the objects of his exasperated dissatisfaction. But to-night

the person he was out of all patience with was himself. He couldn't make

up his mind what he wanted to do. Or rather, knowing what he wanted to

do, he couldn't make up his mind to do it. It was this indecision of his

that had produced the silence while he and Rose had stood in the

entrance to Lessing's store. The only resolution he had come to there

had been not to allow her to say good night to him and walk away. But

now that she was striding along beside him, he couldn't make up his mind

what to say to her.

A more self-conscious man would have forgiven himself his indecision

from recognizing the real complexities of the case. He was, to begin

with, an artist--almost a great artist. And a universal characteristic

of such is a complete detachment from the materials in which they

work--a sort of remorselessness in the use of anything that can

contribute to their complete expression. The raw materials of John

Galbraith's art were paint and canvas, fabrics, tunes, men and women. It

was an axiom in his experience, that any personal feeling--any sort of

human relation with one of the units in the mosaic he was building--was

to be avoided like the plague. His professional and personal contempt

for a colleague capable of a love-affair with a woman in a company he

was directing, would be inexpressible--unfathomable. Of course when a

man's job was finished--and this sort of job nearly always did finish on

the opening night--why, after that, his affairs were his own affair.

In a word: he ordered his life on the perfectly sound masculine instinct

for keeping his work and his sex emotions in separate water-tight

compartments. Rose was a working member of his production, and it was

therefore flagrantly impossible that his relation with her should be

other than purely professional.

And yet there had been something intangibly personal from the very

first, about every one of their broken momentary conversations--almost

about every meeting of their eyes. It had disturbed him the first time

he had ever seen her smile. He remembered the occasion well enough. She

had just finished executing the dance step--the almost inexcusably

vulgar little dance step he had ordered her to do as a condition of

getting the job she said she wanted--had turned on him blazing with

indignation; but right in the full blaze of it, at something she must

have seen, and understood, in his own face, in deprecation of her own

wrath, she had, slowly and widely, smiled.

And then the way she worked for him in rehearsal! He'd seen girls work

hard before--desperately, frantically hard, under the fear that they

weren't good enough to hold their jobs. That wasn't the spirit in which

this girl worked. She seemed possessed by a blazing determination that

the results he wanted should he obtained. It seemed she couldn't devour

his intentions quickly enough, and her little unconscious nod of

satisfaction after he had corrected a mistake and she felt sure that now

she knew exactly what he wanted, was like nothing in his previous

experience.

The wonderful thing about it was that she carried that eagerness beyond

the confines of her own job. And she put it to good effect too. She had

taken that Larson girl and, by the plain force of personal dominance,

made her talk right. Well, why? That was the question. Who was she

anyway? Where had she come from? Who was "the only person who really

mattered" to her--the person who wasn't a pussy-cat?

He had tried hard to convince himself that these were all professional

questions. It was true they had a bearing on the more important and

perfectly legitimate question whether he had, in this altogether

extraordinary personality, discovered a new star. He had, during the

last quarter century, discovered a number--one or two of them

authentically of the first magnitude.

It would have simplified matters immensely if he could have seen Rose in

this category. But the stubborn fact was, he couldn't. She couldn't sing

a bit, and marked as her natural talent was for dancing, she hadn't

begun young enough ever to master the technique of it. That left acting;

but he doubted if she could ever go very far at that. Salient as her

personality was, she hadn't the instinct for putting it over. Or, if she

had it, she distrusted it. She was handicapped, too, by her sense of

humor. A real star in the egg, wouldn't have stopped in the middle of

that first fine blaze of wrath he'd seen, to join him in smiling at it.

A real actress wouldn't have spent her energies teaching another woman

to talk, nor persuading him to buy another woman a beautiful frock. The

focus had to be sharper than that. The only way you got the drive it

took to spell your name in electric lights, was by subordinating

everything else to the projection of yourself, treating your

surroundings, with irresistible conviction, merely as a background. This

girl could never do that.

Yet the notion wouldn't leave his mind that she could do something, and

do it more than commonly well. She must have an instinct of her own for

effects to enable her to understand so instantaneously what he was

trying to do. And once in a while, especially lately, he'd seen, over

some experiment of his, a flash of dissent across her eager face which

gave him the preposterous idea that by asking her--asking a

chorus-girl!--he might get a suggestion worth thinking about.

Certainly she had helped him in another way, there was no doubt of that.

That sextette, thanks to her teaching, would be the smartest, best

mannered bunch of chorus-girls that had adorned a production of his in a

long, long time.

And here, perhaps, he came closer than anywhere else to an understanding

of the source of the girl's attraction for him. John Galbraith could

remember the time when, a nameless little rat of a cockney, he had slept

under London bridges, opened cab doors for half-pence, carried links on

foggy nights. By the clear force of genius he had made his way up from

that;--from throwing cart-wheels for the amusement of the queues waiting

at the pit entrances of theaters, from the ribald knock-about of East

End halls, from the hilarity of Drury Lane pantomimes. Professionally

his success was a solid indubitable thing. If he weren't actually

preeminent in his special field, at least there was no one who was

accorded a preeminence over him.

But another ambition, quite apart from the professional one, was hardly

so well satisfied. From the time of his very earliest memories he had

felt a passionate admiration for good breeding, and a consuming envy of

the lucky unconscious possessors of it. Since ten years old, he had

been possessed by the great desire to be acknowledged a gentleman. There

was nothing of vulgar veneer about this. It was the real interior thing

he wanted; that invisible yet perfectly palpable hall-mark which without

explanations or credentials, classified you. His profession had not

brought him in contact more than very infrequently with people of this

sort, and his personal interests never could be made to do so with

results perfectly satisfactory to himself. There it was,--the thing

those lucky elect possessed without a thought or an effort. It was an

indestructible possession, apparently, too. You couldn't throw it away.

Dissipation, dishonesty, even a total collapse that brought its victim

down to the sink that he himself had sprouted from, seemed powerless to

efface that hall-mark.

He learned to suppose that if it were indestructible, it was also

unattainable, though perhaps he himself failed of attaining it only in

the consciousness of having failed--in the inability to stop trying for

it, straining all his actions through a sieve in the effort to conform

to a standard not his own.

Well, this girl, whose own life must have collapsed under her in a

peculiarly cruel and dramatic fashion so that she had had to come to him

and ask him for a job in the chorus--she had the hall-mark. She had

besides a lot of the qualities that traditionally went with it, but

often didn't. She was game--game as a fighting-cock. What must it not

have meant to her to come down into that squalid dance-hall in the first

place and submit to the test he had subjected her to! How must the

dressing-room conversation of her colleagues in the chorus have revolted

and sickened her? What must it mean to her to take his orders--sharp

rasping orders, with the sting of ridicule in the tail of them when they

had to be repeated;--to be addressed by her last name like a servant?

Why, this very afternoon, how must she have felt, standing there like a

manikin, ordered to put on this dress and that, by a fussy fat woman who

wouldn't have touched her with tongs? But from not one of these

experiences had he ever seen her flinch or protest. Oh, yes, she was

game, and she was simple, as they always were; a fine type of the real

thing.

And, somehow, he felt, she treated him as if he were hall-marked too.

He hadn't much to go by--absurdly little things really. But, after all,

it was the little things that counted;--a fine distinction in the

cadence of a voice, in the sort of nod of greeting or farewell one gave.

She never nodded at him in that curt telegraphic sort of way without

warming him up a bit inside.

And all the while he was a director and she was a chorus-girl and an

unyielding etiquette of their respective professions forbade a word of

human intercourse between them! He had violated it, as both of them had

been aware, when he shook hands with her and thanked her for having

taught Olga Larson to talk. And just because he recognized quite well

how necessary the barrier was in all but one out of a thousand cases,

its existence in this one case baffled and irritated him.

Up to the hour when he had turned into Lessing's store this afternoon,

for a look at the dresses Mrs. Goldsmith had been picking out for the

sextette, this feeling of baffled curiosity and of irritation over the

etiquette that forbade his satisfying it, would have summed up,

adequately enough, all the emotions he was conscious of toward the girl.

His professional admiration for her was another thing of course--a

perfectly legitimate thing. But with her appearance from behind the

screen, in that French evening gown--a gown she wore with the

indescribable air of belonging in it--with all her vibrant, irregular,

fascinating, eupeptic beauty fully revealed, his mood of impatient

acquiescence had fallen away. The basis of his feeling toward her

shifted in a manner that James Randolph wouldn't have had a moment's

difficulty in explaining, although Galbraith didn't understand it

himself.

The thing he was conscious of was, when she made that offer to copy this

gown herself for twenty dollars and so leave him leeway for the purchase

of the Empire frock for Olga--offering to go to that trouble not for

herself or her friend, but to further the accomplishment of what he

wanted; namely, the success of his production--what he was conscious of

then, was an overpowering desire to make a confidante of her; to talk

matters out with her, show her some of the major strategy of the game

that he had to consider, and find out how the thing would look to her.

It was all against the rules, of course. But to this case--the one in a

thousand certainly, in ten thousand maybe--the rules manifestly did not

apply.

If it hadn't been for that opaque white veil, the glow of light and

eagerness in her face would probably have conquered his resistance

finally and for good, while they stood there in the entry to the store.

As it was, he was still hanging on a dead center as they walked down the

east side of the avenue together.

Ahead of them, and to the right, over in Grant Park, was the colossal

municipal Christmas tree, already built, and getting decorated against

the celebration of Christmas Eve, now only two days away.

"Shall we rehearse on Christmas Day?" Rose asked.

He came out of his preoccupation a little vaguely. "Why, yes. Yes, of

course," he said absently. Then, coming a little further, and with a

different intonation, he went on: "We're really getting pressed for

time, you see. And the opening won't wait for anybody. It's hard luck

though, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, for the others;" Rose said, "but--I'm glad."

It wouldn't have needed so sensitive an ear as his to catch the girl's

full meaning. Christmas--this Christmas, the first since that mysterious

collapse of her life, whose effect he had seen, but whose cause he

couldn't guess--was going to be a terrible day for her. She had dreaded

lest it should be empty. He wanted to say, "You poor child!" But--this

was the simple fact--he was afraid to.

There was another momentary silence, and again Rose broke it.

"Do you think you'll be able to convince Mrs. Goldsmith," she asked,

"that her gowns don't look well on the stage?"

"Probably not," he said in quick relief. Rose had decided the issue for

herself; brought up the very topic he'd wanted to bring up; got him off

his dead center at last. Back of Rose, of course, was the municipal

Christmas tree with its power of suggesting a lot of ideas she must

fight out of her mind.

"Certainly not," he went on, "if you're right about her, and I fancy you

are, that her taste isn't negative, but bad, and that it's the very

hideousness of the things she likes. No, she won't be convinced, and if

I know Goldsmith, he'll say his wife's taste is good enough for him. So

if we want a change, we've a fight on our hands."

The way he had unconsciously phrased that sentence startled him a

little.

"The question is," he went on, "whether they're worth making a fight

about. Are they so bad as I think they are?"

"Oh, yes," said Rose. "They're dowdy and fourth-class and ridiculous. Of

course I don't know how many people in the audience would know that."

"And I don't care." said John Galbraith with a flash of intensity that

made her look round at him. "That's not a consideration I'll give any

weight to. When I put out a production under my name, it means it's the

best production I can make with the means I've got. There may be men who

can work differently; but when I have to take a cynical view of it and

try to get by with bad work because most of the people out in front

won't know the difference, I'll retire. I'm only fifty and I've got ten

or fifteen good years in me yet. But before I'll do that, I'll go out to

my little farm on Long Island and raise garden truck."

There was another momentary silence, for the girl made no comment at all

on this statement of his _credo_. But he felt sure, somehow, that she

understood it and there was nothing deprecatory about the tone in which,

presently, he went on speaking.

"Of course a director's got only one weapon to use against the owners of

a show, when it comes down to an issue, and that's a threat to resign

unless they let him have his way. I've used that twice in this

production already, and I can see one or two places coming where I may

have to use it again. So, if there's any way of throwing out those

costumes without giving them their choice between getting new ones or

getting a new director, I'd like to find it. Would it be possible, do

you think, to get better ones that would also be cheaper? That argument

would bring Goldsmith around in a hurry. It's ridiculous, of course, but

that's the trouble with making a production for amateurs. You spend more

time fighting them, than you do producing the show."

"I don't believe," said Rose, "that you could get better ready-made

costumes a lot cheaper; at least, not enough to go around, and in a

hurry. Of course every now and then, you can pick up a tremendous

bargain--some imported model that's a little extreme, or made in trying

colors, that they want to get rid of and will sell almost for whatever

you'll pay. But the two or three we might be able to find, wouldn't help

us much."

"And I suppose," he said dubiously, "it's out of the question getting

them any other way than ready-made; that is, and cheaper too."

The only sign of excitement there was in the girl's voice when she

answered, was a sort of exaggerated matter-of-factness. Oh, yes, there

was besides a wire edge on it, so that the words came to him through the

cold air with a kind of ringing distinctness.

"I could design the costumes and pick out the materials," she said, "but

we'd have to get a good sewing woman--perhaps more than one, to get them

done."

He wasn't greatly surprised. Perhaps the notion that she might suggest

something of the sort was responsible for the tentative dubious way in

which he had said he supposed it couldn't be done.

But Rose, at the sound of her own voice and the extraordinary

proposition it was uttering, was astonished clear through. She hadn't

had the remotest idea of saying such a thing a moment or two before.

What had suggested it, she couldn't have told. That day-dream perhaps,

that she had amused herself with while Mrs. Goldsmith was making up the

tale of her atrocities. Perhaps it had been just the suggestions

speaking in the tone, not the words, of John Galbraith's voice--that he

hoped she'd offer something like that.

Anyway, whatever it was that presented the idea to her, the thing that

seized on it and spoke it aloud was an instinct that didn't need to stop

and think--an instinct that realized indeed, if this isn't too

far-fetched a way of putting it, that its only chance lay in escaping

into the open ahead of the slower-footed processes of thought. If she

hadn't spoken instantly like that, it's perfectly clear she wouldn't

have spoken at all. But, having heard her own voice say the words, she

resolved, in spite of her fright--because she was frightened--to back

them up.

"You've had--experience in designing gowns, have you?" Galbraith asked.

"Only for myself," she admitted. "But I know I can do that part of it."

And she wasn't telling more than the truth! The confident excitement

that possessed her, gave a stronger assurance than any amount of

experience could have done.

"But,"--she reverted to the other part of the plan--"I'm not a good

sewer. I'd have to have somebody awfully good, who'd do exactly what I

told her."

"Oh, that can be managed;" he said a little absently, and with what

struck Rose as a mere man's ignorance of the difficulties of the

situation. Expert sewing women didn't grow on every bush. But at the end

of a silence that lasted while they walked a whole block, he convinced

her that she had been mistaken.

"I was just figuring out the way to work it," he said then, explaining

his silence. "I shall tell Goldsmith and Block (Block was the junior

partner in the enterprise) that I've got hold of a costumer who agrees

to deliver twelve costumes satisfactory to me, at an average of say,

twenty per cent less than the ones Mrs. Goldsmith picked out. If they

aren't satisfactory, it's the costumer's loss and we can buy these that

Mrs. Goldsmith picked out, or others that will do as well, at Lessing's.

I think that saving will be decisive with them."

"But do you know a costumer?" Rose asked.

"You're the costumer;" said Galbraith. "You design the costumes, buy the

fabrics, superintend the making of them. As for the woman you speak of,

we'll get the wardrobe mistress at the Globe. I happen to know she's

competent, and she's at a loose end just now, because her show is

closing when ours opens. You'll buy the fabrics and you'll pay her. And

what profit you can make out of the deal, you're entitled to. I'll

finance you myself. If they won't take what we show them, why, you'll be

out your time and trouble, and I'll be out the price of materials and

the woman's labor."

"I don't think it would be fair," she said, and she found difficulty in

speaking at all because of a sudden disposition of her teeth to

chatter--"I don't think it would be fair for me to take all the profit

and you take all the risk."

"Well, I can't take any profit, that's clear enough," he said; and she

noticed now a tinge of amusement in his voice. "You see, I'm retained,

body and soul, to put this production over. I can't make money out of

those fellows on the side. But you're not retained. You're employed as a

member of the chorus. And so far, you're not even being paid for the

work you're doing. As long as you work to my satisfaction there on the

stage, nothing more can be asked of you. As for the risk, I don't

believe it's serious. I don't think you'll fall down on the job, and I

don't believe Goldsmith and Block will throw away a chance to save some

money."

At the end of another silence, for Rose was speechless here, he went on

expanding the plan a little further. And if the assurances he gave her

were essentially mendacious, he himself wasn't exactly aware that they

were. It had often happened in productions of his, he said--and this

much was true--that to save time or to accomplish some result he wanted,

he put up a little of his own money for something and trusted to a

prosperous event for getting it back. It was clearly for the good of the

show that the costumes for the sextette should be better than the ones

Mrs. Goldsmith had picked out. The only alternative way of getting them,

to a knock-down and carry-away fight with Goldsmith and Block, which,

even if it were successful, would weaken the effect of his next

ultimatum, was the plan he now proposed to Rose. She needn't regard the

money he put up as in any sense a personal loan to her. They were simply

cooperating for the good of the enterprise. If her work turned out to be

valuable, it was only right she should be paid for it.

And then he pressed her for an immediate decision. The job would be a

good deal of a scramble at best, as the time was short. If she agreed to

it, he'd get in touch with the wardrobe mistress at the Globe, to-night.

As for the money, he had a hundred dollars or so in his pocket, which

she could take to start out with.

Of course the only lie involved in all this was the warp of the whole

fabric; that he was doing it, impersonally, for the success of the show.

And that might well enough have been true. Only in this case, it

definitely wasn't. He was doing it because it would establish a personal

connection, the want of which was becoming so tormenting a thing to his

soul, between himself and this girl whom he had to order about on the

stage and call by her last name, or rather by a last name that wasn't

hers--an imagination-stirring, question-compelling, warm human creature,

who, up to now, had been as completely shut away from him as if she had

been a wax figure in a show-window.

They had reached the Randolph Street end of the avenue, and a policeman,

like Moses cleaving the Red Sea, had opened the way through the tide of

motors for a throng of pedestrians bound across the viaduct to the

Illinois Central suburban station.

"Come across here," said Galbraith taking her by the arm and stemming

this current with her. "We've got to have a minute of shelter to finish

this up in," and he led her into the north lobby of the public library.

The stale baked air of the place almost made them gasp. But, anyway, it

was quiet and altogether deserted. They could hear themselves think in

here, he said, and led the way to a marble bench alongside the

staircase.

Rose unpinned her veil and, to his surprise, because of course she was

going out in a minute, put it into her ulster pocket. But, curiously

enough, the sight of her face only intensified an impression that had

been strong on him during the last part of their walk--the impression

that she was a long way off. It wasn't the familiar contemplative brown

study, either. There was an active eager excitement about it that made

it more beautiful than ever he had seen it before. But it was as if she

were looking at something he couldn't see--listening to words he

couldn't hear.

"Well," he said a little impatiently, "are you going to do it?"

At that the glow of her was turned fairly on him. "Yes," she said, "I'm

going to do it. I suppose I mustn't thank you," she went on, "because

you say it isn't anything you're doing for me. But it is--a great thing

for me--greater than I could tell you. And I won't fail. You needn't be

afraid."

Inexplicably to him (the problem wouldn't have troubled James Randolph)

the very completeness with which she made this acknowledgment--the very

warmth of the hand-clasp with which she bound the bargain, vaguely

disappointed him--left him feeling a little flat and empty over his

victory.

He found his pocketbook and counted out a hundred and twenty dollars,

which he handed over to her. She folded it and put it away in her

wrist-bag. The glow of her hadn't faded, but once more it was turned on

something--or some one--else. It wasn't until he rose a little abruptly

from the marble bench, that she roused herself with a shake of the head,

arose too, and once more faced him.

"You're right about our having to hurry," she said. "Don't you suppose

that some of the department stores on the west side of State Street

would still be open--on account of Christmas, you know?"

"I don't know," he said. "Very likely. But look here!" He pulled out his

watch. "It's after seven already. And rehearsal's at eight-thirty.

You've got to get some dinner, you know."

"Dinner doesn't take long at the place where I go," she reminded him.

"But if I can get one or two things now--I don't mean the

materials--why, I can get a start to-night after the rehearsal's over."

"I don't like it," he said glumly. "Oh, I know, it's a rush job and

you'll have to work at it at all sorts of hours. If only you ... If I

could just ease up a bit on your rehearsals! Only, you see, the sextette

would he lost without you. Look here! There's nothing life or death

about this, you know. You don't want to forget that you've got a limit,

and crowd the late-at-night and early-in-the-morning business too hard.

Think where we'd be if you turned up missing on the opening night!"

"I shan't do that," she said absently almost, and not in his direction.

Then, with another little shake, bringing herself back to him with a

visible effort: "If you only knew what a wonderful thing it's going to

be, to have something for late at night and early in the morning ..."

Before he could find the first one of the words he wanted, she had given

him that curt farewell nod which, so inexplicably, from the first had

stirred and warmed him, and turned away toward the door.

And she had never seen what was fairly shining in his face; no more than

she had heard the thing that rang so eagerly in his voice through the

thin disguise of an impersonal, director-like concern that she shouldn't

impair her health so far as to spoil her for the sextette!