"Everybody, no. I don't think so and I am sure your daughter doesn't."
"I wish she would hurry."
"Nor do you."
"No, I don't think so."
"I doubt if the police do either."
"After jailing him!"
Jones, who had been taking in the room, the piano, the portrait, the
table, sketched a gesture.
"We are all in jail. The opinion of the world is a prison, our own ideas
are another. We are doubly jailed, and very justly. We are depraved
animals. We think, or think we think, and what we think others have
thought for us and, as a rule, erroneously."
From a phonograph somewhere, in some adjacent den, there floated a tenor
aria, the _Bella figlia del amore_, pierced suddenly and beautifully by
a contralto's rich voice.
Jones turned. "That's Caruso. I don't know who the Maddelena is. Do you
remember Campanini?"
"Yes, I remember him. He was a better actor than Caruso."
"And so ugly that he was good-looking. Caruso is becoming uneven."