Only one sorrow had come to her. There was no part in the drama for Florence.
To Florence this was no deprivation. Acting had never appealed to her. Life, to her, was more than acting on a stage. Life, vivid life, physical strength, the great out-of-doors, this was her world.
“But when you are rich and famous,” she had said to Petite Jeanne, “I will be your ‘mother.’ Every star, you know, must have a ‘mother’ to protect her from impudent and stage-struck people.”
“Yes, and well you are able to protect me!” laughed Petite Jeanne, squeezing her arm. “Parbleu! Your arm, it is hard and strong as a man’s!”
Florence had not waited until the French girl was rich and famous to become her guide and protector. She had entered upon the task at once.
“At least until she is safely launched upon her career, and well accustomed to America, I will stay by her side,” she had said to the great producer, Jeffry Farnsworth.
To this Farnsworth agreed. He at once made provisions for their immediate needs.
Rehearsals had begun. They proceeded in a satisfactory manner for three weeks. Then Farnsworth announced a four weeks’ breathing spell.
“Go north, where it is cool,” he had said to Florence. “Our French lily droops a little in this humid climate. The north waters and woods will be medicine to her body and religion to her soul.”
So here they were, drifting on a silent bay, with the moon and the stars above them and all the world, save one restless speed boat, at rest.