``Yes,'' said he, looking at her with awed admiration.
``It is in your face. I saw it there, the day you
came--after you sang the `Batti Batti' the first time
and failed.''
``There was nothing to me then.''
``The seed,'' replied he. ``And I saw it was an acorn,
not the seed of one of those weak plants that spring
up overnight and wither at noon. Yes, you will win.''
He laughed gayly, rolled his eyes and kissed his fingers.
``And then you can afford to take a little holiday, and
fall in love. Love! Ah, it is a joyous pastime--
for a holiday. Only for a holiday, mind you. I shall
be there and I shall seize you and take you back to your
art.''
In the following winter and summer Crossley
disclosed why he had been sufficiently interested in grand
opera to begin to back undeveloped voices. Crossley
was one of those men who are never so practical as
when they profess to be, and fancy themselves, impractical.
He became a grand-opera manager and organized
for a season that would surpass in interest any
New York had known.
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