With his forehead bowed on his hand, he waited until Father April had left the room by the drawing-room door; then at last, raising his head:
Lafcadio, holding his head high, stepped into the room with a manly and self-confident bearing; as soon as he was in front of the old man, he bowed gravely. As he had made up his mind not to speak before he had had time to count twelve, it was the Count who began.
“In the first place, let me tell you there is no such person as Lafcadio de Baraglioul,” said he, tearing up the visiting-card, “and be so good as to inform Monsieur Lafcadio Wluiki, since he is a friend of yours, that if he makes any use of these cards—that if he fails to destroy them all like this” (he tore it up into minute fragments, which he dropped into his empty cup), “I shall give notice to the police and have him arrested for a common swindler. Do you understand?... Now, come to the light and let me look at you.”
“Lafcadio Wluiki will obey you, Sir.” (His voice was very deferential and trembled a little.) “Forgive him for approaching you by such means as these; he had no evil intention. He wishes he could convince you that he is not undeserving of ... your esteem, at any rate.”
“Your figure is good, but your clothes don’t fit,” went on the Count, who was determined not to hear.
“Then I was not mistaken?” said Lafcadio, venturing upon a smile and submitting himself good-humouredly to the scrutiny.
“Thank God! it’s his mother he takes after,” muttered the old Count.
“If I don’t let it be too apparent, mayn’t I be allowed as well to take after....”
“I was speaking of your looks. It is too late now for me to know whether your mother is the only person you are like. God will not grant me time.”