There is not space here to tell of the motives of love, hate, pride and patriotism that lay back of this bit of drama. Enough that when it was done Marjory Dean pronounced it the most perfect bit of opera yet produced in America.
“And you will be our diva?” Jeanne was all eagerness.
“I shall be proud to.”
“Then,” Angelo’s eyes shone, “then we are indeed rich once more.”
“Yes. Your beautiful rugs, your desk, your ancient friend the piano, they shall all come back to you.” In her joy Jeanne could have embraced him. As it was she wrung his hand in parting, and thanked him over and over for his part in this bit of work and adventure.
“The music,” she whispered to Swen, “you will do it?”
“It is as well as done. The wind whispering in the graveyard pines at midnight. This is done by reeds and strings. And there are the gongs, the deep melodious gongs of China. What more could one ask?”
What more, indeed?
“And now,” said Florence, after she had, some hours later, listened to Jeanne’s recital of that night’s affairs, “now that it is all over, what is there in it all for you?”
“For me?” Jeanne spread her hands wide. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”