He chewed the end of the enormous Havana
he had lighted, he stuck his feet out straight in front of him,
resting his heels on the floor and turning his shining patent leather
toes straight up, he folded his hands upon the magnificent curve of
his white waistcoat, and leaning his head well back he looked steadily
at the ceiling. All these were very bad signs, as his wife could have
told Malipieri if she had stayed in the room.
Malipieri smoked in silence for some time, entirely forgetting him and
thinking of Sabina.
"Well, Mr. Archaeologist," the Baron said at last, allowing his big
cigar to settle well into one corner of his mouth, "there is the devil
to pay."
He spoke as if the trouble were Malipieri's fault. The younger man
eyed him coldly.
"What is the matter?" he enquired, without the least show of interest.
"You are being watched," answered Volterra, still looking at the
ceiling. "You are now one of those interesting people whose movements
are recorded like the weather, every twelve hours."
"Yes," said Malipieri. "I have known that for some time."
"The next time you know anything so interesting I wish you would
inform me," replied Volterra.
His voice and his way of speaking irritated Malipieri. The Baroness
had been better educated than her husband from the first; she was more
adaptable and she had really learned the ways of the society she
loved, but the Baron was never far from the verge of vulgarity, and he
often overstepped it.
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