Rosemary had vanished.
So Rosemary Sample, still dreaming of her approaching visit to Happy Vale, crossed the airport grounds, and entered the low depot to order a sandwich and cup of coffee, and to sit staring absently at the wall until the coffee was cold.
At the same time, in a far away city coming events were casting their shadows before them, and in that very city the little French girl Petite Jeanne was preparing for a visit to a great concert hall. This visit was to have the most astounding results. So, like some famous stage manager, Fate was getting ready to assemble the cast for the final scenes in our little drama.
Even while Rosemary Sample sat staring at the ceiling, Florence was saying to Danby Force: “I think the Harvest Dance would be a fine thing. Not that we harvest anything but bright prints,” she laughed. “But these golden days surely call for glorious good times. Only—” she hesitated.
“Only what?” He urged her on.
“I wish we could lay out a plan and stick to it, in—in spite—”
“In spite of our good man Hugo,” he laughed. “Well, this time we’ll do just that. We’ll arrange an attractive printed program. On the card every other offering will be an old-fashioned dance. The last shall be a waltz in your artificial moonlight. And I—” he laughed low. “I speak for that last dance right now.”
“Oh!” Florence flushed in spite of herself. “And I—I accept.
“Do you know,” she said a moment later, “I’ve thought of something that might be done. The floor, you know, is very large. Why not send out in the country and get a dozen corn shocks and set them up about the room?”
“A dance among the corn shocks!” Danby Force exclaimed. “A great idea! We’ll do it. We’ll have the place lighted with imitation jack-o-lanterns. That will be a grand ball indeed.”