“They come,” Angelo whispered.
“Oh, my good Father of Love!” Petite Jeanne murmured faintly. “Is it for this that I have danced so long?”
“It is for this.”
“Then—” In the girl’s eyes was a prayer. “Then, good Father, give me courage for one short hour.”
A moment later Angelo and Swen were assisting in the removal of fur coats from visions of loveliness that surpassed the most gorgeous butterflies. For this, you must know, was the Junior Ballet of the Grand Opera. Selected for beauty and grace, they would have shone in any ballroom of the land.
Some were slender, some plump. There were black eyes, brown and blue. There were heads of black, brown and golden hue. The costumes, too, were varied. All were of the filmiest of fabrics and all were gorgeous.
“See!” exclaimed the miracle-working Solomon, spreading his hands wide. “I have brought these here that I may see you dancing with them. I wish to know how you fit in; how you will appear before them all.”
“Ah, poor me!” The little French girl covered her face. “Who am I that I should dance before these so beautiful ones?”
“Come!” said the fairy godfather who had suddenly arrived in their midst. “It is for you only to do your dances as I have seen you here. Yes, and I once did over in the old Blackmoore. Ah, yes, I was a spy. I saw you dance, and how very well you did it, too.”
Jeanne wondered with a thrill whether he could have bribed some one to admit him to the theatre on one of those nights when she danced to the God of Fire alone.