Surprise came to him soon enough, for all that. Suddenly the fairy-like arms of the dancer fell to her sides. Her lithe body became a statue. And there she stood in that circle of light, rigid, motionless, listening.
Then, throwing her arms high in a gesture of petition, she cried,
“Jimmie! The flutter of wings! Can you hear them? How they frighten me!
“Jimmie,” she implored, “don’t let the spotlight leave me! Can you hear them, Jimmie? Wings. Fluttering wings. They mean death! Do you hear them, Jimmie?”
Leaning far forward, Jimmie heard no wings. But in that stillness he fancied he heard the mad beating of the little French girl’s heart, or was it his own?
So, for one tense moment, they remained in their separate places, motionless.
Then, with a little shudder, the girl shook herself free from the terror and called more cheerily,
“There! They are gone now, the wings. Throw on a light, and come and take me home, Jimmie. I can dance no more to-night.”
As she turned to move toward the spot on the floor where her precious God of Fire stood leering at her, she seemed to catch a sound of furtive movement among the shadows. She could not be sure. Her heart leapt, and was still.
Five minutes later she and Jimmie were on a brightly lighted street.