“Gypsies! How romantic!”
“Romantic? Yes, perhaps.” Jeanne was quick to change the subject. She was getting into deep water. Should she begin telling of her early life she must surely, sooner or later, betray her secret.
“Rich people,” she thought, as she journeyed homeward in the great car when the day was done, “they are very much like others, except when they choose to show off. And I wonder how much they enjoy that, after all.
“But Rosemary! Does she suspect? I wonder! She’s such a peach! It’s a shame to deceive her. Yet, what sport! And besides, I’m getting a little of what I want, a whole big lot, I guess.” She was thinking once more of Marjory Dean’s half-promise.
“Will she truly allow me to be her understudy, to go on in her place when the ‘Juggler’ is done again?” She was fairly smothered by the thought; yet she dared to hope—a little.
CHAPTER XI
A DANCE FOR THE SPIRITS
When Jeanne arrived at the rooms late that night, after her evening among the opera boxes, she found a half burned out fire in the grate and a rather amusing note from Florence on the table:
“I am asleep. Do not disturb me.” This is how the note ran.
She read the note and smiled. “Poor, dear, big Florence,” she murmured. “How selfish I am! She works hard. Often she needs rest that she does not get. Yet I am always hoping that she will be here to greet me and to cheer me with jolly chatter and something warm to drink.”
Still in this thoughtful mood, she entered her chamber. She did not switch on the light at once, but stood looking out of the window. Somewhat to her surprise, she saw a dark figure lurking in the shadows across the street.