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"There, Cesare, there are
barley-sugar and candied angelica for you. I wonder,
by the way, why revolutionary men are always
so fond of sweets."
"Other men are, too, only they think it beneath
their dignity to confess it. The new satirist? Oh,
the kind of man that ordinary women will rave
over and you will dislike. A sort of professional
dealer in sharp speeches, that goes about the world
with a lackadaisical manner and a handsome ballet-girl
dangling on to his coat-tails."
"Do you mean that there is really a ballet-girl,
or simply that you feel cross and want to imitate
the sharp speeches?"
"The Lord defend me! No; the ballet-girl is
real enough and handsome enough, too, for those
who like shrewish beauty. Personally, I don't.
She's a Hungarian gipsy, or something of that
kind, so Riccardo says; from some provincial
theatre in Galicia. He seems to be rather a cool
hand; he has been introducing the girl to people
just as if she were his maiden aunt."
"Well, that's only fair if he has taken her away
from her home.


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