And what a strange circle it was! First and most delighted of all, was the great prima donna, Marjory Bryce. Beside her was Merry, and on round the circle, Tad, Weston, Kay King, Big John and the ruddy faced Englishman, Preston Wamsley. To this group Florence had added three persons. These were dark mysterious beings with red handkerchiefs about their necks. Jeanne had started at sight of two of them. They were the gypsy mother and father who had once aided in kidnaping her. But the third! She all but fell upon the stage at sight of him. It was Bihari, her gypsy foster father who having learned, in the way these wanderers have, that Jeanne was to appear on the stage this night, had come all the way from France that he might be a guest of honor.
What a night for Jeanne! Little wonder that she outdanced her wildest dream! Little wonder that when the last curtain fell thunderous applause appeared to rock the great building. Little wonder that they called her back again and yet again.
For all this, the night was not over. The keen mind of Abraham Solomon had thought up a fitting climax for so great a triumph. As, on the final curtain, they stood there in a group, Jeanne and her stage lover, Dan Baker, Angelo, Swen and Solomon, Jeanne broke away to scream in her high pitched voice:
“This is our Golden Circle.” At that, whipping out a long roll of golden paper tape, she raced about the little group entwining them again and again, at last including herself within the circle.
The audience went wild. They applauded; they whistled; they stamped their feet.
More was to come. As the company of beautiful maidens, her chorus, gathered close, she encircled them to cry once more:
“And this, too, is our Golden Circle.”
At this moment came the little dancer’s turn for surprise; for the audience, rising as one man, shouted in unison: “This is our Golden Circle!”
At this instant the entire auditorium seemed to burst into yellow flame. The effect was startling in the extreme. Only ten seconds were required, however, for those on the stage to realize that the wise old Solomon, their manager, had put something over on them. The gold was the flash and gleam of a thousand golden streamers thrown to every point of the compass by delighted patrons. Solomon had provided the streamers with their programmes. Each person had been told in advance that when the time came for using these they would know. And few there were that did not realize when the real moment arrived. Truly, this was an occasion long to be remembered.
Petite Jeanne’s face loomed large next day on every page devoted to dramatic art in the day’s papers. And beneath each were the words: “Girl of the Golden Circle.”