Above her into the night rose the dim, dark outline of Notre Dame. The heavy doors behind her slowly opened now and then, and closed, as an occasional figure went in or out of the church. Mariette, thought Susan, ought to come soon. Perhaps she herself was a little early at their meeting place, for she hadn’t known exactly how to find the French quarter. She hadn’t, in fact, known that there was a French quarter in all Chicago. Yet she hadn’t been surprised when Mariette Berne told her that, until times were better, she was living there. She would, of course, have sought her own people. Susan wondered if she would recognize the girl. It had been so long since Susan had been taken in frilly white dresses and huge hair-ribbons to Monsieur Berne’s dancing school. Mariette Berne had been then a tiny, dark-eyed wisp of a child; dancing, said the elders approvingly, like a fairy. And now years had passed, and Monsieur Berne’s dancing school was no more, and tiny Mariette Berne had grown up and had become a ballet dancer and had telephoned to Susan out of that fragrant past.
