stardom, she still had the distinction that usually comes only to a star back stage. Unless she actually was playing in support of a first-magnitude star, her dressing room was marked “A.” Other members of the company did not drop into her dressing room except by invitation. That room was neat to the point of primness. A square of white coarse sheeting was spread on the floor, under the chair before her dressing table, to gather up dust and powder. It was regularly shaken or changed. There were always flowers — often a single fine rose in a slender vase. On her dressing table, in a corner, you were likely to find three or four volumes — perhaps The Amenities of Book-Collecting; something or other of Max Beerbohm’s; a book of verse (not Amy Lowell’s).

These were not props designed