"I thought you liked the girl," said the Baroness in a tone of
disappointment.
Volterra stuck out both his feet and crossed his hands on his stomach,
after his manner, smoking vigorously. Then, with his cigar in one
corner of his mouth, he laughed out of the other, and assumed a
playful expression.
"I do not like anybody but you, my darling," he said, looking at the
ceiling. "Nobody in the whole wide world! You are the deposited
security. All the other people are the floating circulation."
He seemed pleased with this extraordinary view of mankind, and the
Baroness smiled at her faithful husband. She rarely understood what he
was doing, and hardly ever guessed what he meant to do, but she was
absolutely certain of his conjugal fidelity, and he gave her
everything she wanted.
"The other people," he said, "are just notes, and nothing else. When a
note is damaged or worn out, you can always get a new one at the bank,
in exchange for it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my dear. That is very clever."
"It is very true," said the Baron. "The Conti family consists chiefly
of damaged notes."
He had not moved his cigar from the corner of his mouth to speak.
"Yes, my dear," answered the Baroness meekly, and when she thought of
her last interview with the dowager Princess, she was obliged to admit
the fitness of the simile.
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