Jeanne stared at her with fresh interest. As she made some manner of reply, she found herself, without willing it, dropping into the curious lingo that is gypsy speech. To her surprise, she heard the girl answer in that same lingo.

“So you are a gypsy,” she said. “And you dance.” She could see the child’s slim body sway to the rhythm of the music. “Why do you not try for the prize?”

“I would love to,” the girl murmured. “God knows we need the money! And I could beat them, beat them blind, if only—”

“If only what?” Jeanne breathed.

“If only I did not have a bad knee. But now, for me to dance is impossible.”

At that moment Jeanne became conscious of a coarse-featured, dark-faced woman who was pushing forward a young girl. She recognized the girl on the instant. She was one of those girls who, but half an hour before, had insisted they were gypsies, but who could not speak the gypsy language.

“Yes,” the woman was saying, “yes, she can dance, and she is a gypsy. Try her. You shall see. She dances better than these. Bah!” She scowled. “Much better than these.”

“I do not believe she is a gypsy,” Jeanne whispered to the girl beside her.

“She is not a gypsy,” the lame girl said soberly. “But if we tell—ah, then, look out! She is a bad one, that black-faced woman.”

“So we shall be very wise and keep silent.” Jeanne pressed the girl’s arm. How slender it was! Jeanne’s heart reproached her. She could win that dance contest in this girl’s stead. And yet, she still held back.