The French dancer was the favorite topic of discussion in all
circles.
The newspapers were full of her and filled entire columns with
lists of the kings, princes, and dukes who had been at her feet.
Bets were made on her nationality, the color of her eyes, the
value of her pearls, the number of suicides she had caused--
corresponding, in some sort, to the notches on the gun of a
Western bad man. Gowns and hats were named for her by the
enterprising department stores.
It was announced that her engagement at the Stuyvesant would open
in ten days, and when the box-office opened for the advance sale
every seat for every performance was sold within a few hours.
In the mean time the great Le Mire kept herself secluded in her
hotel. She had appeared but once in the public dining-room, and
on that occasion had nearly caused a riot, whereupon she had
discreetly withdrawn. She remained unseen while the town shouted
itself hoarse.
I had not mentioned her name to Harry, nor had I heard him speak
of her, until one evening about two weeks after my return.
We were at dinner and had been discussing some commonplace
subject, from which, by one of the freaks of association, the
conversation veered and touched on classical dancing.
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