the girl, who was balancing herself on her heels, and swinging to and fro. Rose often assumed this position, and it seemed to carry an indication of insincerity with it, Dorothy thought.
“I could get every word you sang,” continued Rose. “You certainly made them talk about you.”
It would be ungracious not to acknowledge this tribute.
“You do pretty well yourself,” remarked Dorothy. “Are you going into opera when you get out?”
“Opera? Me?”
A derisive chortle followed.
“I'm not kidding myself. I'll be in Mr. Ziegfeld’s opera—if anything.”
“You'll be in real opera!”
Dorothy could see Rose as Lucia, perhaps. She would be effective in the mad scene, with her hair down. In concert, Rose would be rather funny.
“Maybe.”
It was a peculiar answer.
Dorothy looked sharply at Rose, who was performing a mild gymnastic exercise on the edge of a table. There of her was a suspicious-looking ring on the fourth finger left hand. Rose evidently recognized Dorothy’s glance.
“Don’t get too excited about that.”
Which probably meant that she really was engaged.
“Aren’t you-"
"Ooh——"
It was a cool little sound.
“Men don’t interest me,” Rose remarked, placing her elbows behind her on the table and lifting herself. "I can't be annoyed about them. I only love one man."
The girl was talking nonsense.
"I'm terribly interested in poor Paul. 'His voice was gone, my child, but his diction-'"
[73]
