He was like a boy over the fun of actually preparing the production. Carlota looked at him unforgivingly, even appraisingly, if one could appraise joy.
“I will never, never sing at the house of this Mrs. Nevins. She has nothing in the whole world but money—nothing. She is utterly impossible. She does not even know how to patronize graciously.”
“But, dear heart, you must forget her entirely. You are not doing this for her. It is for your own home land and the people you love there, for their relief.”
“But there is not a single person in your company with whom I care to be seen. You have not one single artist, no one but these society girls. I would never appear with them. I am a professional.”
He laughed at her vehemence and hauteur. It was as if Ptolemy had taken offense and expostulated against the privileged classes. He held her hands fast in his.
“You will, too. It will be over in no time, and I ask it for myself, Carlota. I am absolutely selfish about it. You are my Fiametta. I wrote it for you. No one else could ever sing it. You know you were its sole inspiration. And who will know you out there? It is only to lend me your wonderful voice for our success, and some day I shall see that you sing it at the grand opera. Don’t you want me to win out?”
He placed his hand under her obstinate, pointed little chin. Who was it had written,
“her perfect, fruit-shaped chin,
Such as Correggio loved to paint”?
And her small, thoroughbred head with its close, brown curls, the splendid depth and luster of her dark eyes, the clean, fine curve of chin and throat, they were an ever-new delight to him. She lifted her lashes slowly and met his gaze with accusing eyes.