"Do you know—er—'Ever of thee I am fondly dreaming'?"
Felice came quite close to the footlights and peered at him,
"Is it like this?" she hummed it over softly—
"That's the ticket," he nodded; "do you know the words?"
She shrugged.
"I just know it's about a person—who was thinking about some one he used to see," she translated dreamily, "and he thinks he can hear her voice and that cheers him up vairee much when he's feeling low spirited and so it's like this—" She whistled it.
After that they just shouted at her, as eager as children. She never failed one of them—save once, when a gasping person demanded "After the Ball."
That did puzzle her.
"The ball," she echoed regretfully, "I think I don't know about it— what sort of a ball, was it, M'sieur—a little tennis ball?"
But the puffy old lady who asked for "White Wings" was rewarded with the gentlest smile—