Oddly enough, the very next tune chosen by the musician was one of those wild, rocketing gypsy dance tunes that Jeanne had ever found irresistible.
Before she knew what she was about, she went gliding like some wild bewitching sprite across the flat surface of the roof. She was in the very midst of that dance, leaping high and swinging wide as only she could do, when with a suddenness that was appalling, the music ceased.
An ominous silence followed. Out of that silence came a small voice.
“Wha—where did you come from?”
“Ple—oh, please go on!” Jeanne entreated. “You wouldn’t dash a beautiful vase on the floor; you would not strangle a canary; you would not step upon a rose. You must not crush a beautiful dance in pieces!”
“But, ah—”
“Please!” Jeanne was not looking at the musician.
With a squeak and a scratch or two, the music began once more. This time the dance was played perfectly to its end.
“Now!” breathed Jeanne as she sank down upon a stone parapet. “I ask you, where did you come from—the moon, or just one of the stars?” She was staring at a handsome dark-eyed boy in his late teens. A violin was tucked under his arm.
“Neither,” he answered shyly. “Up from a hole in the roof.”