"God bless Rebecca!" Spot whispered in a tone almost inaudible, but Betsy heard him and blushed again.
The show was like any other traveling vaudeville booked to play in small towns. There was the usual song-and-dance Irish comedian and the usual soprano who sang the latest sentimental songs in a voice that one hoped had seen better days. There was an act by trained dogs and one by pigeons, with the burning of the tiny paper house and the fire brigade of sleek, intelligent birds.
The company brought its own orchestra—a violinist and pianist. After the pigeon act all lights were turned off and the music changed from the tinkling tunes appropriate for the bird act to a mad whirling dance. A red spotlight was thrown on the stage and in it could be seen the swaying, graceful figure of a lovely young woman, with flashing, devil-may-care eyes and a saucy carmine mouth with teeth so white they looked almost cruel.
When the small orchestra played the opening bars of the mad dance Rebecca unconsciously clutched Philip's arm on one side and Jo's on the other. Her breath came in short gasps and for a moment she closed her eyes. She opened them on the swaying, whirling, beautiful dancer.
