A sudden silence went over the room. The Count was standing in the doorway, rocking on his heels, either hand on the sides of the door, a torrent of Italian, which was merely the culmination of some theme he had begun in the entrance hall, was abruptly halved as he slapped his leg, standing tall and bent and peering. He moved forward into the room, holding with thumb and forefinger the centre of a round magnifying glass which hung from a broad black ribbon. With the other hand he moved from chair to table, from guest to guest. Behind him, in a riding habit, was a young girl. Having reached the sideboard he swung around with gruesome nimbleness.
‘Get out!’ he said softly, laying his hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Get out, get out!’ It was obvious he meant it; he bowed slightly.
As they reached the street the ‘Duchess’ caught a swirling hem of lace about her chilling ankles. ‘Well, my poor devil?’ she said, turning to Felix.
‘Well!’ said Felix. ‘What was that about, and why?’
The doctor hailed a cab with the waving end of a bulldog cane. ‘That can be repaired at any bar,’ he said.
‘The name of that’, said the Duchess, pulling on her gloves, ‘is a brief audience with the great, brief, but an audience!’
As they went up the darkened street Felix felt himself turning scarlet. ‘Is he really a Count?’ he asked.
‘Herr Gott!’ said the Duchess. Am I what I say? Are you? Is the doctor?’ She put her hand on his knee. ‘Yes or no?’
The doctor was lighting a cigarette and in its flare the Baron saw that he was grinning. ‘He put us out for one of those hopes that is about to be defeated.’ He waved his gloves from the window to other guests who were standing along the curb, hailing vehicles.
‘What do you mean?’ the Baron said in a whisper.