“And there is no wind!” Florence answered low.
As they looked, a mellow glow overspread the window.
“Who—What is it?” Jeanne’s eyes were staring.
“That?” Angelo laughed a low laugh. “That is only the gleam of Lindbergh Light, the airplane beacon.”
“But does it always rattle the window?”
“Light? Never!”
“But this,” the young Italian added quickly, “this is nothing. Come! We are wasting time. To-night, by this fire, we shall lay the groundwork for such a light opera as has never been known before. You, Swen,” he turned to the big blonde, “you are to write the music. I shall write the play. And these, our friends, are to be the stars.”
“Beautiful dream!” Petite Jeanne murmured.
“A dream for a night. A reality forever!” The Italian youth flung his arms wide in the characteristic gesture that the little French girl loved to see.
“See!” he exclaimed as the fire died down to the orange glow of a sunset. “The ugly little god smiles. It is an omen of good.”