It was a very sober Jeanne who approached the door of the theatre that evening just as the shadows of skyscrapers were growing long.
To her surprise she found Florence, Angelo, Dan Baker and Swen, gathered there. At their backs were several large trunks.
“Why! What—” She stared from one to the other.
“Been thrown out,” Angelo stated briefly.
“The—the opera? Our beautiful opera?”
“There will be no opera. We have been thrown out.” Angelo seemed tired. “A road company opens here a week from next Sunday.”
Florence saw the little French girl sway, and caught her. As she did so, she heard her murmur:
“The hand of Fate! It has turned the hour glass. The sand is falling on my head.”
She was not ill, as Florence feared; only a little faint from lack of rest and sleep. She had once more caught a vision of that giant hour glass. A cup of coffee from a nearby shop revived her spirits.
She started to tell her story, but Angelo stopped her. “All in good time!” he exclaimed. “You are too tired now. And we must look to our trunks.”