“But Miss Mabee,” she demanded, “what does one do between the time he is a prodigy and when he is a man?”
“Oh, I—I don’t know.” Miss Mabee stirred her tea thoughtfully. “He just does the best he can, gets around among people and hopes something will happen. And, bye and bye, something does happen. Then all is lovely.
“Excuse me!” She sprang to her feet. “There’s the phone.”
“But you?” said Tum, “you, Miss Jeanne, are a famous dancer—you must be.”
“No.” Jeanne was smiling. “I am only a dancing gypsy. Once, it is true, I danced a light opera. And once, just once—” her eyes shone. “Once I danced in that beautiful Opera House down by the river. That Opera House is closed now. What a pity! I danced in the Juggler of Notre Dame. And the people applauded. Oh, how they did applaud!
“But a gypsy—” her voice dropped. “With a gypsy it is different. Nothing wonderful lasts with a gypsy. So now—” she laughed a little, low laugh. “Now I’m just a wild dancing bumble bee with invisible wings on my feet.”
“Are you?” The boy’s eyes shone with a sudden light. “Do you know this?” Taking up his violin, he began to play.
“What is it?” she demanded, enraptured.
“They call it ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee.’”
“Play it again.”