“Jeanne,” Florence said at last, as if to change the subject, “was the gypsy who chased you, on that morning when you fell into Merry’s cellar, among those you saw at the Forest Preserve?”
“No,” the little French girl said thoughtfully. “No, I am sure he was not.”
“Then,” said her companion, “we had better put his Majesty, the little God of Fire, back to rest in his hole in the floor. You may need him yet.”
“I am sure we shall.” The little French girl’s tone carried assurance. “That opera is beautiful, very, very beautiful. And what is it the poet says?
“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’
“And still another:
“‘All that is at all
Lasts forever, past recall.’
“If these things are true, how can our beautiful opera fail to live? Believe me, our time will yet come.
“Yes, yes, we must hide the little Fire God very carefully indeed.”