For the moment she was interested most of all in this vast and most marvelous of all carnivals, the Century of Progress. For many this was not a carnival at all, but a serious attempt to place before man’s eye all the stupendous achievements of mankind. For Jeanne it was a vast carnival, a place to enjoy one’s self, a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
Now as she tripped along at Florence’s side she whispered: “See! Are not those steel towers mysterious? They are like fingers pointing to the stars we do not see because the clouds hide them. And the little rocket cars waiting there—they seem ready not just to carry you over to the island of enchantment, but on and on through the sky to the moon, to Venus, to Mars.
“But, oo, la la! Here I am dreaming again. We must hurry. Those terrible Orientals may be turning our room upside down this very moment.”
More often than not, in this life, it happens that the thing we most expect does not happen at all. With breath coming quick and short Petite Jeanne and Florence climbed the four flights of stairs leading to their room only to find everything as they had left it.
“Oh!” Jeanne breathed. “There is no one!”
“One would think,” Florence laughed, “that you were disappointed.”
“But no!” Jeanne made a face of horror. “What could one do if she were to find her room filled with queer little yellow men?”
“Throw them down the stairs.”
“Ah, yes, you—you who are always tumbling around in a gymnasium. But poor little me? Bah! It is quite im-poss-i-ble. I am glad they are not here.
“But, see!” The little French girl’s voice changed. She dragged a curious box-like trunk from beneath the bed. “See what we have here.