She uttered wailing complaints to Angelo in his studio that night. Angelo passed the complaint on to the poker-faced manager.
“If you wish to direct your play,” this dictator decreed, “you may do so, provided,” he prodded Angelo in the ribs until it hurt, “provided you are able and willing also to finance it.”
“It’s a hard life, my child,” Dan Baker said to Jeanne the next night, as the light of the fire played on his weary old face. “You think the brass rail is terrible. But think of me. They have put me in a gymnasium for an hour each day, where a Samson of a chap uses me for a dumbbell, an Indian club and a punching bag.”
Jeanne laughed at his description and felt better.
“They’re spoiling your dance, little girl,” he said in a more serious tone. “But never mind. Do your old dance in the old way here in this room or in the park, just as you were doing it when I first saw you. Keep it full of freshness, life and beauty, stretch it to fill the time, and when we open,” his voice died to a whisper, “on our great first night, dance your gypsy dance just as you learned it back there in France, and I promise you that all will be more than well.”
Petite Jeanne caught her breath. Here was a bold proposal. Would she dare?
Springing to her feet, she went swinging away in a wild whirl. When she dropped back in her place before the fire, she whispered hoarsely,
“I will!”
Her strong young hand met his in a grip that was a pledge.
But were these things to be? Even as she lay there blinking at the fire, some imp of darkness seemed to whisper, “You will never do it. You never will.”