"Naturally!"
"That depends. I do not know whether his sort of originality is what the public will appreciate. But I do know very well that your husband and I will never get on together."
"Why not?"
"He is not my sort. I don't understand him. And I confess that I feel anxious."
"Anxious? What about, monsieur?"
"Madame, I have written a great libretto. I want a great opera made of it. It is my nature to speak frankly; perhaps you may call it brutally, but I am not homme du monde. I am not a little man of the salons. I am not accustomed to live in kid gloves. I have sweated. I have seen life. I have been, and I still am, poor—poor, madame! But, madame, I do not intend to remain sunk to my neck in poverty for ever. No!"
"Of course not—with your talent!"
"Ah, that is just it!"
His eyes shone with excitement as he went on, leaning toward her, and speaking almost with violence.
"That is just it! My talent for the stage is great, I have always known that. Even when my work was refused once, a second, a third time, I knew it. 'The day will come,' I thought, 'when those who now refuse my work will come crawling to me to get me to write for them. Now I am told to go! Then they will seek me.' Yes"—he paused, finished his glass of brandy, and continued, more quietly, as if he were making a great effort after self-control—"but is your husband's talent for the stage as great as mine? I doubt it."