Florence turned her face to the wall.
“There’s no resisting her,” she whispered to herself.
“And yet many have been resisting her,” she thought sorrowfully.
This was true. All that is life—each joy, every sorrow—must come to an end. The run of the gypsy drama in which Jeanne had played so important a role had ended in June. At first they had believed it would be easy to secure a booking for the coming season. It was not easy. Jeanne’s talents were limited. No dramatic production of any sort was being prepared for the coming year which had a part she could play. They had gone from booking house to booking house, from manager to manager. All had returned Petite Jeanne’s smile, but none had offered her a contract.
All this had not discouraged the little French girl in the least. She believed in what she called her “luck.” Fortunate child! Who can fail if he but believes hard enough and long enough in his luck?
So, though the booking season was all but at an end and prospects were as dark as a December dawn, Jeanne was keeping up her training. Just now, two hours before dawn, she was preparing to go to the park and dance the dew off the grass while the sun came creeping up from the waters of Lake Michigan.
As Jeanne peered into the closet a spot of flaming red smote her eye.
“My luckee dress!” she whispered. “And this is my luckee day! Why not?”
Without further ado, she robed herself in a dress of flaming red which was as short as a circus rider’s costume and decorated with so many ruffles that it was impossible to tell where dress ended and ruffles began.
After tying a broad sash of darker red about her waist, she slipped on socks that rose scarcely above her shoetops, kicked on some pumps, switched out the light and tripped down the stairs to step out into the dewy night.