“A very beautiful castle it was to look at on a sunny day, from the outside. Little towers and spires, many little windows, all round and square.
“But inside?” She made a face and shuddered. “Oh, so very damp and cold! No fires here. No lights there. Only a bit of a brazier that burned charcoal, very bright and not warm at all. A grandmother? A castle? Ah, yes, perhaps. But who wants so grand a castle that is cold? Who would wish for a grandmother who did not bend nor smile?
“And besides,” she added, as she sank into a chair, “she may not have been my grandmother at all. This was long ago. I was only a little one.”
“All the same,” Florence muttered to herself, some time later, “I’d like to know if that was her grandmother. It might make a difference, a very great difference.”
CHAPTER XX
A PLACE OF ENCHANTMENT
Then came for Petite Jeanne an hour of swiftly passing glory.
She had arisen late, as was her custom, and was sipping her black coffee when the telephone rang.
“This is Marjory Dean.” The words came to her over the wire in the faintest whisper. But how they thrilled her! “Is this Petite Jeanne? Or is it Pierre?” The prima donna was laughing.
“It is Petite Jeanne at breakfast,” Jeanne answered. Her heart was in her throat. What was she to expect?
“Then will you please ask Pierre if it will be possible for him to meet me at the Opera House stage door at three this afternoon?”