“Sure we will!”
Petite Jeanne turned to Merry. “Will you go?” she asked, suddenly grown timid.
“Yes, I’d like to,” Merry assented quickly. “I’ve never seen their shops. I’d love to.”
“All right,” Jeanne said with a smile. “We’ll come. And perhaps we’ll bring some friends.”
“Ja, bring friends. As many as you like. Mebby we could perhaps sell them some suitcases?”
Kay King gave Jeanne his card. And there, for the time, the matter rested. But Jeanne did not allow it to escape her memory. It was to be, she told herself, one of the strangest and most interesting opening-up parties it had been her privilege to attend.
That night Petite Jeanne once more danced alone beneath the yellow glow of Jimmie’s spotlight. The affair of two nights before had frightened her more than she cared to admit. But this little French girl possessed an indomitable spirit. She knew what she wanted; knew quite as well why she wanted it, and was resolved that, come what might, she should have it.
On this particular night she would gladly have taken her strong and fearless companion, Florence, with her to the theatre. But Florence had come upon a bit of good fortune; she had been employed to conduct classes in a settlement house gymnasium two hours each evening.
“That,” she had exclaimed joyously, “means bread and butter!”
So Petite Jeanne had come alone. And why not? Was not Jimmie over there in the balcony? And was not her friend, the night watchman, somewhere in the building?