“Why for them? Why not for you, for us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wouldn’t you like to be rich? Wouldn’t you like to have a life like this always,—flowers, music, good wine, delicate food, a life of luxury?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I want quiet and simplicity. I don’t want to be rich.”
“Oh, you make me lose patience. You say you would like to be a painter. Well, why not study,—Paris, Rome and so on?”
“That takes money. I haven’t got it.”
“Yes, you have. All you want. Millions!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you later. Have some more wine.”
“No, no. I’ve had enough. You want to make me drunk. Come on, let’s leave this cursed bordel. My head’s splitting. I want fresh air.”