“But not one of them all,” she exclaimed loyally, “can boast of a more wonderful circle than ours!”
She thought of the Junior Ballet, those beautiful, talented young women who were being trained as her chorus. Their caresses and words of encouragement on that first night were not flattery. Every day, by little acts of kindness and courtesy, they proved this. They also bestowed their affections upon the old trouper, Dan Baker.
“And how I love them for that!” the little French girl said fervently.
“And yet, who would not love him? His gray hair, his brooding blue eyes, his gentle, kindly manner toward all; how could anyone resist them?”
Soon enough she was to learn that there were those who could resist the old trouper’s kindly good nature. She was to learn, too, that this gentle old man held within his heart the courage of a soldier, the will and the power, if need be, to become a martyr for the right.
It was on that very evening that, as they loafed and talked over tea and toast in the studio, Dan Baker was called to the telephone, and Petite Jeanne heard him use language that she had believed quite foreign to his tongue.
“What’s that?” she heard him say. “A fund for actors? I have subscribed to the Fund for Aged Actors, yes. Yes. What’s that? Another fund? Five hundred dollars? Impossible!
“You will!” She saw his face turn red. His hands twisted themselves into livid knots. “Say, you! I know who you are now. It’s a racket! You’re trying to shake me down. You’ll never do it! Good-bye!”
He slammed the receiver down on the hook and stood there until the hot blood drained from his face and left him white as marble. Watching him, Jeanne saw him totter. Thinking he was about to fall she hurried up to encircle him with her slender arms.
“What is it, old trouper?” she asked gently.