andra Etelvina, and her august son, Prince Florencio, the late apparent heir.
Rinaldi. Invited? On the contrary, I am here precisely because I was not invited.
Leonardo. Impossible!
Rinaldi. Apparently I am considered a déclassée; it is my own fault in a way. In Paris I was presented to the Prince officially by the Italian Ambassador, but here, of course, there is no etiquette. One comes for a change, to amuse oneself. One associates with everybody, just as if one were in the country. The Casino, the races, the shooting-club are all neutral ground. Well, one day, at one of them, I chanced upon the Prince with—with his…
Leonardo. With Imperia.
Rinaldi. Should I have refused to bow to him? How absurd! I am not like Lady Seymour, afraid to be seen in public with a fellow countryman, an artist like Harry Lucenti.
Leonardo. It would have been absurd.
Rinaldi. Art and beauty are sacred in Italy. One of the popes said apropos of Benvenuto Cellini, that such artists were above all laws. I did not hesitate to meet the Prince's innamorata, nor absent myself from the companies at her villa, nor hurry to leave the Prince at the moment she arrived, when only a few remained—the intimates, the inner circle. They are the most fascinating. However, the Prince has taken my condescension for moral abdication. That is the reason I am here without an invitation. Naturally, he did not seem surprised, but when the Princess saw me, she was like an icicle.
Leonardo. She is extremely old-fashioned. She receives only dragons of virtue.
Rinaldi. And discretion, like the daughter of the Duke of
