“Yes. In Chicago!” Jeanne replied joyously.
“Then we must have him at our party tonight. Perhaps I might like to paint his picture.”
“Oh, you are sure to!” Jeanne cried. “There is no one in the world like Bihari.”
So Bihari was sent for. Tum Morrow too had been invited and, to help the affair along, had volunteered to bring three boon companions, all destitute musicians, and all glad to provide music in exchange for Jeanne’s gypsy-style chicken dinner.
When the hour arrived all were there; so too were the great steaming platters of chicken with dumplings and gravy. And such a feast as that was! Bihari had persuaded two good cooks of his own race to prepare the feast. And, because of their love for Bihari and Jeanne, they had spared neither time nor labor.
“That,” said Sandy, as at last the final toast of delicious fruit juice had been drunk, “is the finest feast I have ever known.”
“And now,” he said to Jeanne, “tell us about this magic isle I am to visit, this Isle Royale.”
“You?” Jeanne looked at him in surprise. “You are going to Isle Royale? In winter?”
“Yes. In an airplane.”
“In an airplane?” The look of surprise and longing on Jeanne’s face was a wonderful thing to behold. Her own Dragonfly was stored away, but never would she forget those golden days when she had gone gliding through the air. Nor would she forget the glorious days she had spent on the shores of the “Magic Isle.”