"Don't let anyone know I've read it—especially Henriette. She's a dear and a great friend of mine, but, all the same, she'd be horribly jealous. There's only one thing about the libretto that frightens me."
"What is it? Do tell me!"
"Having so many Easterns in it. If by any chance you should ever want to produce your opera—" She hesitated, with her eyes fixed upon him. "In America, I fancy—no, I think I'm being absurd."
"But what do you mean? Do tell me! Not that there's the slightest chance yet of my opera ever being done anywhere."
"Well, it's only that Americans do so hate what they call color."
"Oh, but that is only in negroes!"
"Is it? Then I'm talking nonsense! I'm so glad! Not a word to Henriette! Hush! Here she is!"
At that moment the door opened and the white face of Madame Sennier looked in.
"What are you two doing here? Where is Max?"
"Gone to arrange about the sleeping-car."