about
half past one in the afternoon
At nine-thirty in the morning -- an unheard of hour in the theater -- the watchman at the Globe let her in the stage door , and Rose had half an hour before the arrival of the wardrobe mistress and her assistant , for looking over the work done since she had left for rehearsal the day before . She liked this quiet , cavernous old barn of a place down under the Globe stage ; liked it when she had it to herself before the two sewing women came and later , when , with a couple of sheets spread down on the floor she cut and basted according to her cambric patterns , keeping ahead of the flying needles of the other two . After her own little room , the mere spaciousness of it seemed almost noble . She even liked it , when , about half past one in the afternoon , on matinée days , the chorus-girls of the show now drawing to the end of its run , began dawdling in , passing shrill jokes with Bill Flynn , the fireman , rummaging through the mail in the letter-box , casually unfastening their clothes all the while , preliminary to kimonos and make-up , gathering in little knots about the sewing-machines and exclaiming in profane delight over the costumes . She wondered at herself , sometimes , for having ceased to mind their language , their shameless way of going half-clad , their general atmosphere of moth-like worthlessness -- and then laughed at herself for wondering ! How would her own quality be finer , her soul a more ample thing , for the keeping , on one of the shelves of it , of a pot of carefully preserved horror ? If she could succeed with these costumes , her success , she hoped , would lead her directly into the business of designing other costumes for the stage .