CHAPTER XXV
THE BEARDED STRANGER
Though that which happened to Jeanne on this very night could scarcely be called an adventure, it did serve to relieve the feeling of depression which had settled upon her like a cloud after that dramatic but quite terrible moment when the irate director had driven her from the stage. It did more than this; it gave her a deeper understanding of that mystery of mysteries men call life.
Between acts she stood contemplating her carefully creased trousers and the tips of her shiny, patent leather shoes. Suddenly she became conscious that someone was near, someone interested in her. A sort of sixth sense, a gypsy sense, told her that eyes were upon her.
As her own eyes swept about a wide circle, they took in the bearded man with large, luminous eyes. He was standing quite near. With sudden impulse, she sprang toward him.
“Please tell me.” Her voice was eager. “Why did you say all this was ‘a form of life’?”
“That question,” the man spoke slowly, “can best be answered by seeing something other than this. Would you care to go a little way with me?”
Jeanne gave him a quick look. She was a person of experience, this little French girl. “He can be trusted,” her heart assured her.
“But I am working.” Her spirits dropped.
“There are extra ushers.”
“Yes—yes.”