For her unofficial first appearance she was resolved to woo the world with a dance—a dance all fearless somersaults and quivering battements; a young Hungarian meanwhile recording her movements sensitively upon a violin.
She was looking well in an obedient little ballet skirt that made action a delight. Her hair, piled high in a towering toupee, had a white flower in it.
“Down a step and through an arch,” a pierrette who passed her in the corridor directed her to the stage.
It was Miss Ita Iris of the Dream.
Miss Sinquier tingled.
How often on the cold flags of the great church at home had she asked the way before!
“Oh, Lord,” she prayed now, “let me conquer. Let me! Amen.”
She was in the wings.
Above her, stars sparkled lavishly in a darkling sky, controlled by a bare-armed mechanic who was endeavouring, it seemed, to deliver himself of a moon; craning from a ladder at the risk of his life, he pushed it gently with a big soft hand.
Miss Sinquier turned her eyes to the stage.