"She's no rester!" he would say emphatically. "Works all the time. Never met an Englishwoman like her!"
Charmian almost loved him for the words. At last someone, and a big man, recognized her for what she was. She had never been properly appreciated before. Triumph burned within her, and fired her ambitions anew. She felt almost as if she were a creator.
"If Madre only knew," she thought. "She has never quite understood me."
While Claude was working on the new alterations and developments devised by Crayford—and he worked like a slave driven on by the expectations of those about him, scourged to his work by their desires—Lake studied the baritone part in the opera with enthusiasm, and Crayford and Charmian "put their heads together" over the scenery and the "effects."
"We must have it all cut and dried before I sail," said Crayford. "And I can't stay much longer; ought really have been back home along by now."
"Let me help you! I'll do anything!" she cried.
"And, by Gee! I believe you could if you set your mind to it," he answered. "Now, see here—"
They plunged deep into the libretto.
Crayford was resolved to astonish New York with his production of the opera.
"We'll have everything real," he said. "We'll begin with real Arabs. I'll have no fake-niggers; nothing of that kind."