“As for me!” Again she settled herself in the spot of sunlight. “My time will come.”
She might have added, “Sooner than you could dream of.” She did not.
CHAPTER XXVII
DREAMING
Angelo must be found. It was he who had written the successful light opera, The Gypsy God of Fire. No other could write as he—or so Jeanne thought. Yes, he must be found, and that without delay. Friday midnight would be here before anyone could dream three dreams.
And where was one to look for him save in his old haunts? “His garret studio and at night,” Jeanne said to Florence, next morning. “To-morrow we will go.”
“But to-morrow I cannot go. My work keeps me out late.”
“Ah, well, then I shall go alone.”
“Are you not afraid to be on the streets at night?”
“As Pierre I am afraid. But I shall be Petite Jeanne. As Jeanne I shall be safe enough.”
Knowing the futility of an argument with this strange child of France, Florence smiled and went on her way.