“I danced and made faces. I can dance; not like fairies. But I can dance and make faces. Want to see me?”
Jeanne nodded her head.
Springing from his place on the bench, the old man began to dance.
And now it was the girl’s turn to open her eyes wide in surprise. This old man was an artist. True, he did not dance as lightly as she. But he knew steps and movements. He had not been on his feet for five minutes when she realized that he could teach her much about her own beloved art.
In the joy of dancing he forgot the terrible faces he was to make.
At last, quite out of breath, he threw himself down beside her.
“You’ve been on the stage,” she said solemnly.
“Why, so I have. All my life.”
She put out a small hand. “I, too.” Her voice was mellow with emotion. “I am Petite Jeanne.”
“Petite Jeanne! I should have guessed it.”