Leonardo. In spite of it? He always insisted that he would.
Rinaldi. It seems that after the suicide of Prince Florencio—I hope you notice the suicide—I confine myself to the truth which is official.
Leonardo. An unexceptionable sort of confinement. After all it makes life possible.
Rinaldi. I know. The difficulty is, though, that people have such a weakness for the likely lie. Nobody has been able to account for the suicide.
Leonardo. Why not ask the Signore?
Rinaldi. You could never get it out of him. A crime here would horrify the aristocratic element; they are the persons who spend the money. One cannot die here, one cannot kill oneself, except in some way that is agreeable. We die of happiness, we kill ourselves so as not to occasion inconvenience to others. Nevertheless, I have decided to swallow the whole story—a reminiscence, eh, of Saturday Night? Like that affair of Lady Seymour's. Of course you have heard?
Leonardo. Not another suicide?
Rinaldi. Not this time. I met her with her arm in a sling—it seems she fell in her automobile. Last year she had a cut over her eye—a fall, so I hear, with her horse. These accidents always happen when her husband is away from home. Two or three months suffice for the wounds to heal…
Leonardo. Physically and morally, I suppose?
Rinaldi. I confine myself to the truth which is official.
Leonardo. You are a very prudent woman. By the way, your color is particularly fine this morning. You are looking excessively well. I notice a certain austerity in your toilette…
