Wild, hilarious, dizzy hours followed. Was a light opera ever before produced in such a fantastic fashion?
Angelo was continuously prepared with fresh script. This dark-eyed youth was a worker. Swen kept pace with musical compositions.
And how Swen could beat out those melodies on the battered piano reposing in the corner!
When it was music for her dance Petite Jeanne, bare-footed, bare-armed, with eyes shining, sprang into motion with such abandon as made her seem a crimson cardinal, a butterfly, a mere flying nothing.
How Swen would throw back his blonde mane and laugh! How Dan Baker shook his old head and sighed with joy!
“Our play!” he would murmur. “Our play. How can it fail? With such an angel of light even Heaven would be a complete success.”
So for hours they labored. Testing music, words, lighting effects, dances, everything, until their heads were dizzy and their eyes dim.
Then, as the blaze flamed up in the broad fireplace, they cast themselves upon Angelo’s rugs of wondrous thickness and softness, and sighed deep sighs of content.
“How wonderful it is to have beautiful things!” Jeanne exclaimed, as on one of these occasions she buried her white hands in the thick, velvety surface of a Persian rug.
“Ah, yes!” Angelo sighed. “When you are sure you are to keep them.”