Again the light flashed down and showed her standing on the same mat on which she had danced, her hands clasped, her face raised. She was ethereal, divinely so. Her kimono was all white, save where the shaft of moonbeams touched the silk to silvery brilliance. And her voice! All the notes were minors, piercing, sweet, melancholy—terribly beautiful. She was singing music unheard in any land save the Orient, and now for the first time, perhaps, appreciated by the foreigners, because of that voice—a voice meant for just such a medley of melody. And when she had ceased, the last note had not died out, did not fall, but remained raised, unfinished, giving to the Occidental ears a sense of incompleteness. Her audience leaned forward, peering into the darkness, waiting for the end.
The American theatrical manager stalked towards the light, which lingered a moment, and died out, as if by magic, as he reached it. But the girl was gone.
By Jove! Shes great! he cried out, enthusiastically. Then he turned on the proprietor. Where is she? Where can I find her?
The man shook his head.
Oh, come, now, the American demanded, impatiently, Ill pay you.
I don know. She is gone.
But you know where she lives?
The proprietor again answered in the negative.
Now, wouldnt that make one of this countrys squatty little gods groan? the exasperated manager demanded of a younger man who had followed him forward.
Shed be a great card in vaudeville, the young man contented himself with saying.