There was a solid two seconds of silence. For once in her life Patricia Devereux had missed a cue!
John Galbraith had been an acrobat as well as a dancer, and he was quick on his feet. He had just turned, unexpectedly, an intellectual somersault, but he landed cleanly and without a stagger. "Come, Miss Devereux," he said, "that's your line." And the scene went on.
But when, about four o'clock that afternoon, the rehearsal was over, Galbraith called Olga out to him and allowed himself a long incredulous stare at her. "Will you tell me, Larson," he asked, "why in the name of Heaven, if you could do that, you didn't do it yesterday?"
"I couldn't do it yesterday," she said. "Dana taught me."
"Taught you!" he echoed. "Beginning after last night's rehearsal?... Dane!" he called to Rose, who had been watching a little anxiously to see what would happen.
"You've learned it very well indeed," he said with a nod of dismissal to Olga, as Rose came up. "Don't try to change it. Stick to what you've got."
Then, to Rosa, "Larson tells me you taught her. How did you do it?"
"Why, I just—taught her," said Rosa. "I showed her how I said each line, and I kept on showing her until she could do it."
"How long did it take you—all night?"
"All the time there's been since last rehearsal," said Rosa, "except for three meals."