“No news will come,” was Petite Jeanne’s sad comment. “And to think that all this time I have been so happy!” She buried her face in her hands and wept.
At the studio, overcome by anxiety and weariness, Jeanne slumped down in a broad, upholstered chair before the fire and fell asleep.
As for the others, they, too, drew chairs to the fire, but did not sleep. They spent an hour in thoughtful silence.
Then there was a rattle at the doorknob and in stepped Florence herself. Ruddy-cheeked and apparently quite unharmed, she stood before them.
Angelo sprang forward. “Where have you been?” he gasped.
“Your feet!” he exclaimed. “They’re soaking. Must be frozen!”
“Not quite. Help me off with them, will you?” She spoke of shoes, not of feet.
In a gallant, brotherly manner, he removed her shoes and stockings. Then leading her to a place before the fire, he proceeded to chafe the purple from her all but frozen toes.
“Wh—where’s the god?” he asked suddenly.
For answer she put out a hand to reclaim her water-soaked paper-bound package. Tearing away the wrapping, she revealed its contents and then set it at the edge of the fire to dry.