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Updated: May 25, 2025
John Galbraith had spoken truth when he said there was no such thing as a fresh start. For good or evil, you were the product of your yesterdays. The nightmare tour on the road with The Girl Up-stairs company was a part of Rose; the day in Centropolis, the night when Galbraith had made love to her.
"Here, John," said he to the drayman, "take these trunks to the Centropolis. We'd like 'em this week, too. None of that old trick of yours of dumping 'em in the crick, you know!" "They'll be up there in five minutes all right, Mr. Elkins," said John, grinning at Jim's allusion to some accident, the knowledge of which appeared to be confined to himself and Mr.
That you will be prospahed beyond yo' wildest dreams I believe equally cehtain. Welcome!" This address was delivered within thirty seconds of the time of our arrival at our old rooms in the Centropolis. The Captain saluted us in a manner extravagantly polite, mysteriously enthusiastic. The air of mystery was deepened when he called again to see Mr. Elkins in the evening and was invited in.
She never once caught that twinkling gleam of understanding in his eye that had meant so much to her during the rehearsals of The Girl Up-stairs. His manner toward her carried out the tone of the letter she'd got from him in Centropolis. It was stiff, formal, severe. He seldom praised her work and never ungrudgingly.
The hours in the workroom were pleasant ones, too, with their perpetual reminder that the creative power that had deserted her last January, had come back. The little problems were ludicrously easy, of course but they stimulated a pleasant sense of reserve power. She couldn't, of course, have stayed in Centropolis indefinitely.
"Real estate and financial circles," ran the article under these headlines, "are thrown into something of a fever by the arrival, on the 6:15 express last evening, of a gentleman of distinguished appearance, who took five rooms en suite on the second floor of the Centropolis, and registered in a bold hand as J. Bedford Cornish, of New York. Mr.
But I'll tell you, young woman, the town of Centropolis don't take kindly to the efforts of young women of your sort to make a living nor to the way they make it." "You're wrong," said Rose, dangerously quiet, "if you think I mean to make a living in any other than a decent honest way.
It rested, to begin with, on a foundation of adequate material comfort which the unwonted physical privations of the six months that preceded it the room on Clark Street, the nightmare tour on the road, and even the little back room in Miss Gibbons' apartment over the drug-store in Centropolis made seem like positive luxury.
We offered as an excuse the lateness of the hour. "Why, you hain't seen my family yet, Mr. Barslow," said he. "They'll be disappointed if yeh don't come in." I suggested that we were staying for a few days at the Centropolis; and Alice added that we should be glad to see himself and Mrs. Trescott there at any time during our stay. Elkins promised that we should all drive out again.
Centropolis wasn't a very big town, but it had a wide, well paved street lined with stores, and a pleasant variety of gravel roads winding round hills that had neat and fairly prosperous-looking houses scattered over them. A rather dignified old court-house among the big trees of the Square proclaimed the place a county seat.
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