Jeanne’s triumph, as, at the end of the performance, she did her weird dance of the flame, was even greater than Florence’s own. And Florence was glad.
CHAPTER XXV
OUT OF THE AIR
As Florence sat in a shadowy corner of the stage waiting for the company to gather and start their march to the banquet hall, she was thinking, “I wonder if he heard. If he did, shall I hear from him? Or will the mystery of the boy in the crimson sweater remain unsolved?”
She was roused from these wonderings by Jeanne’s voice in her ears, “Come, ma cherie! It is time to go.”
To Florence, who had lived so much of her life in out-of-the-way places, their banquet hall with its blinking candles, snow-white linen and glistening silver was a place of great enchantment.
They were all there: Tim O’Hara and his two bright-eyed young secretaries, the harpist in her red waist, the little Spaniard who played the guitar, the entire cast and several others.
They were all scanning the bill of fare when there was a commotion at the door.
“You can’t come in,” a waiter was saying.
“But I must come in,” a youthful voice insisted. “They called me in out of the air and here I am.”
“Out—out of the air!” Florence exclaimed, springing to her feet.