“Ah! The gypsy fortune teller speaks.” He still smiled. Nevertheless he held her hand in a warm clasp.
“Yes,” she agreed, “I am a gypsy, a fortune teller. Well, perhaps. But, for all that, I only speak of things I have seen. Listen, my good friend!” Her tone was impressive. “I have seen that which will form the background for an Oriental opera. Not a long opera, one act perhaps; but an opera, vivid and living, all the same. And you, my friend, shall write it.”
“You talk in riddles.” He drew her to a seat beside him. “Explain, my beautiful gypsy.”
“This much I shall tell you, not more. I have seen a magic curtain that burns but is not consumed. Friday at midnight you shall see it for yourself. And about it you shall weave a story more fantastic than any you have yet dreamed.”
“And you shall be the leading lady!” He had caught the spirit of the hour. “That shall be glory. Glory for me.”
“Ah, no, my friend.” Petite Jeanne’s head drooped a little. “I am not known to grand opera. But you shall have a leading lady, such a grand lady! Marjory Dean! What do you say to that?”
“You are right.” Angelo’s tone was solemn. “She is very grand, marvelous indeed. But, after all, we work best, we write best, we do all things best for those who love us a little.”
“Ah, you would say that!” Jeanne seized him by the shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
“But see!” she cried when she had regained her composure. “Marjory Dean, too, is to see the magic curtain. To-morrow at midnight, you shall see her. And then I am sure she will love you more than a little. Then all will be more than well.
“And now see! Here is Swen. He is bringing hot coffee and sweet rolls stuffed, I am sure, with pineapple and fresh cocoanut. On with the feast!”