Signor Bartlezzi felt a cold perspiration on his forehead, and slowly mopped it with a red cotton handkerchief. The calmness of despair was settling down upon him. "He must know," he thought. "Better get it over."
"To-night," he answered, "in an hour—perhaps before. They'll be dropping in directly."
"Ah!" It was a long-drawn and significant monosyllable. The Count rose to his feet, and commenced pacing the room. Already its meanness was forgotten, its narrow walls had expanded. The day of his desire had come. "What are your numbers now?" he asked.
The Professor drew a long breath, and kept his eyes fixed upon his visitor. The thing was narrowing down.
"Four," he answered; "four besides myself."
The Count started and appeared perplexed.
"Four on the acting committee, you mean, I suppose?" he suggested. "Four is the old number."
The Professor shook his head doggedly.
"Four altogether," he repeated.
The old man's eyes flashed, but the angry light died almost immediately away. After all, there might be grave reasons, of which he was ignorant, for restricting the number.