“If only we were there now,” sighed the little French girl. “Oh, why must we be ambitious? Why do we struggle so for success and yet more success, when peace awaits us in some quiet place?”
To this Florence found no answer. She rose to turn on the electric plate for tea, when the telephone rang.
She went to answer it. Petite Jeanne heard her answer the telephone, but paid no attention to her conversation until she caught the word gypsy. Then she sat straight up.
“I must meet her to-night?” Florence was saying. “A gypsy woman? But that is quite impossible.
“She is being taken to Canada to-night by the officials, you say? But how can it be necessary for me to see a gypsy? I know no gypsies. Besides, I can see no one to-night. Believe me—”
Her words were broken in upon by Petite Jeanne. “If it is a gypsy, you must see her!” The little French girl was pulling at her arm impulsively. “It is important. It must be. Besides, gypsies, they are my friends. You must remain here. I will go to the theatre alone.”
One look at Petite Jeanne’s tense face told Florence that she had no choice in the matter.
“I will see her,” she spoke into the telephone. “Send her over at once.”
They drank their tea in silence. The night was too full of portent for words.
“Gypsy?” Florence thought. “What can she want of me?”