The stranger’s eyes wandered from one to the other of them. They rested longest on Petite Jeanne. This made her uncomfortable.
“My name,” said the stranger, crashing the silence and indulging in a broad grin that completely transformed his face, “is Abraham Solomon. You’d say my parents left nothing to the imagination when they named me, now wouldn’t you?” He laughed uproariously.
“Well, they didn’t. And neither do I. Never have. Never will. What I want to know is, have you placed that light opera?” He turned an enquiring eye on Angelo.
“No, er—” the Italian youth stammered, “we—we haven’t.”
“Then,” said Solomon, “suppose you show it to me now.” He nodded toward the miniature stage at the back of the studio. “That is, as much of it as you can—first act at least.”
“Gladly.
“On your toes!” Angelo smiled as his friends leaped from their places by the fire. Not one of them could guess what it meant. But, like Petite Jeanne, they believed more or less in fairies, goblins, and Santa Claus.
The performance they put on that night for the benefit of their audience of one, who sat like a Sphinx with his back to the fire, would have done credit to a broader stage.
When they had finished, the look on the stranger’s face had not changed.
Rising suddenly from his chair, he seemed about to depart without a word.