enny Pearl. I wouldn't let any _man_ make a fool of
me."

That night a thunderstorm ruined Jenny's hat.

Next day she bought another, pale green with rosy cherries bobbing at
each side. "I think this hat's going to bring me luck," she announced.

"The cherries is all right, but green isn't lucky," said Irene.

"Oh, well," said Jenny, "I'll chance it, any old way."

Chapter XIII: _The Ballet of Cupid_

The thunderstorm which ruined Jenny's hat destroyed summer. Blowy August
twilights began to harass the leaves: darkness came earlier, and people,
going home, hurried through the streets where lately they had lingered.
Jenny's new green hat with bobbing cherries seemed to have strayed from
the heart of a fresher season, and passers-by often turned to regard her
as she strolled along Coventry Street toward the Orient. September
brought louder winds and skies swollen with rain; but Jenny, rehearsing
hard for a new ballet on the verge of production, had no leisure to
grumble at chilly dusks and moonless journeys home to Hagworth Street.

The Orient was in a condition of excitement, for the new ballet, like a
hundred before it, was expected to eclipse entirely the reputation of
its predecessors. Two Ballerinas had arrived from Rome, winter migrants
who in their lightness and warmth, would bring to London a thought of
Italy. A Premier Danseur, more agile than a Picador, had traveled over
from Madrid, and a fiery Maitre de Ballet had been persuaded to forsake
Milan. Yet the first night of Cupid was hard upon the heels of a theater
apparently utterly unprepared for any such date. The master carpenter
was wrangling with the electrician. The electrician was insulting the
wardrobe-mistress. The wig-maker was talking very rapidly in French to
the costumier's draftsman, who was replying equally rapidly in Italian.
From time to time the managing director shouted from the back of the
Promenade to know the reason for some delay. The new Maitre de Ballet,
having reduced most of the girls to hysteria by his alarming rages,
abused his interpreter for misrepresenting his meaning. The Ballerinas
from Rome were quarreling over precedence, and the Spanish Danseur was
weeping because the letters of his name were smaller by four inches than
those which announced on the playbills the advent of his feminine
rivals. The call-boy was losing his youth. Everybody was talking at
once, and the musical director was always severely punctual.