“Have you already learned the banking business as conducted in America?” I inquired. I’m not so sympathetic as I used to be but the count doesn’t seem to notice it.
He took a cigarette and answered with deliberation:
“I have now, for four months, pasted letters in a book. It seems that I am to go on forever pasting letters in a book. I wrote it to my father and he sends me an answer saying, ‘My son, you can paste letters in a book as well in Rome as in New York. Come back at once. I find this pasting too expensive!’”
I expressed fitting regrets at this paternal interference.
“It is with great sorrow that I leave,” said the count sadly, “I have made many charming friends here.”
He removed his cigarette and bowed to me. I inclined my head. Our mutual lack of spirits did not prevent us from being extremely polite.
“You, dear madame, have been sweetly kind to the exile. I don’t know what I should have done without your ever beautiful sympathy.”
I made deprecating murmurs.
“A young man like myself, a romantic, must have a confidante, one who feels and understands, one who has lived.” I bowed again in melancholy admission of the fact. “It will be hard to go.”
He looked really troubled. His handsome warmly-tinted face wore an expression of gravity that made him seem much older. His eyes, usually alert and full of laughter, were wistfully dejected.