CHAPTER IV
PLUMDUM
“But Jeanne!” Florence exclaimed a half-hour later. “You can’t come with us! You truly can’t!”
“Oh! Can I not?” Jeanne stood up slim and straight as a silver moonbeam.
“Of course not!” Florence tried to be firm. “We are going into a battle. The island is on fire. It will be a battle of storm, flame and smoke. But we must save our beautiful island.”
“And is it not my island?” Jeanne demanded. “Did I not live in a wrecked ship off its very shores? And were you not my very good companion?”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, “but now you belong to France.”
“France,” the little French girl’s voice dropped, “In my so beautiful France everyone is poor again. No rich American will rent my gloomy castle. So—” she breathed, “So here I am!”
“You have rich friends,” Florence suggested, nodding toward the yacht.
“Oh these!” Jeanne tossed her fair head. “Yes, these are friends. They are very kind indeed. They like me to dance so they bring me with them.
“Good people they are, too,” she added, more quietly. “Some are very famous. One writes books, one paints pictures of great rocks, one goes to cold, cold, countries to explore and one he is very rich.