When Angelo returned to the studio next day at noon, he was in a sober mood.
His eyes lighted as he found a small table standing before the fire, spread with spotless linen and piled with good things to eat.
“This,” he said, taking Petite Jeanne’s hands in his own, “is your doing.”
“Not entirely, and not hardly at all,” laughed the little French girl. “I’m a poor cook, and a very bad manager. You may credit it all to Florence.”
Florence, at that, stepped from the shadows. For once her ready smile was not forthcoming.
“Florence!” he exclaimed in surprise. “How is it you are here? I thought you were at your work at the gym.”
“There is no more gym,” said the girl soberly. “It has been turned into a lodging house for those poor unfortunates who in these sad times have no place to sleep.
“Of course,” she added quickly, as a mellow tone crept into her voice, “I am glad for them! But this leaves me exactly flat; no job, and no prospect of one for months.”
“No job? Of course you have one!” Jeanne placed an inadequate arm about Florence’s ample waist. “You will be my stage ‘mother’ once more.”
At this they turned an inquiring glance upon Angelo. For once it seemed he had nothing to say.