Imogen.
My luck! what about yours?
Rose.
Yes, isn't this a wonderful stroke of fortune for me! Fate, Jenny! that's what it is—Fate! Fate ordains that I shall be a well-to-do fashionable lady, instead of a popular but toiling actress. Mother often used to stare into my face, when I was little, and whisper, "Rosie, I wonder what is to be your—fate." Poor mother! I hope she sees.
Imogen.
Your Arthur seems nice.
Rose.
Oh, he's a dear. Very young, of course—not much more than a year older than me—than I. But he'll grow manly in time, and have mustaches, and whiskers out to here, he says.
Imogen.
How did you——?