mother. It will never do to have her worry. I can give out that I have gone to bed, and join you later. Will those people be there?
Harry Lucenti. We might stop for them at the theatre. Do you know Mr. Jacob's new theatre? A gorgeous music-hall, in the worst possible taste, but diverting. Of course it has less character than the old puppet-show by the port, with its sailors and stevedores, open-mouthed at the sight of the fine ladies adventuring slumming. But Cecco's tavern is still there. He gives foreigners their money's worth, too—the whole performance, popular dances, a duel with knives, winding up with a raid by the police, all engineered and directed by Cecco. You would swear it was the truth.
Prince Florencio. We might take supper there. It will be more amusing than these eternal midnight cafés.
Harry Lucenti. I think so, too. We can have the performance suppressed. He knows we are in the secret. [They continue the conversation.
Rinaldi. [To Leonardo] I felt sure that you were sympathetic, but this intimacy with the Prince was disconcerting. My husband may be appointed Ambassador to Suavia. It would never do to have these people suspect anything. Otherwise, I should have consulted the Prefect.
Leonardo. The Signore? How could you be so foolish? This place would be a paradise but for him. Every winter he imports the picked rogues of Christendom; then they pay him to keep an eye on them; so he contrives to earn his salary. However, leave it to me; there is no occasion to worry. You say he works in a music-hall?—an acrobat, a brute of a fellow?
Rinaldi. A brute, but wonderful! You understand; you, too, are an artist.
Leonardo. Is he threatening you with an open scandal?
