“Fifteen minutes? Great!”
Without a word he drew on his great coat and, slamming the door behind him, went thumping down the stairs.
“What—what—” Jeanne was too astonished for speech.
Angelo seized her hand. He drew their friends into the circle and pulled them into a wild roundo-rosa about the room.
“We’re made!” he exclaimed as, out of breath, he released them. “Abraham Solomon is the greatest genius of a manager and producer the world has ever known.
“And the Junior Ballet! Oh, la la! You never have seen so many natural beauties before, and never will again. They are in training for Grand Opera. So you see they must be most beautiful and good.
“And to think,” he cried, almost in dismay, “they will be here, here in my studio in fifteen minutes! Every one of you give me a hand. Let’s put it in order.”
As she assisted in the re-arranging of the studio, Petite Jeanne found her head all awhirl. Half an hour before she had listened with a pain in her heart to Dan Baker discussing dry bread or a full meal over a small gold piece he had gained by begging in the snow. And now all this. How could she stand it? She wanted to run away.
“But I must not,” she told herself stoutly. “I must not! For this is our golden hour.”
Scarcely had she regained her composure when there came the sound of many pairs of feet ascending the stairs.