Alma. (From the mirror) Is your count young or old? (Robert makes no answer) My eyes are red!--Red as fire, aren't they, Auguste? And he may be young! (She goes out, left)
Michalski. Come, Auguste, we won't disturb the great gentlemen!
Heinecke. Herr Count, I'll say, take a seat in this arm-chair, I'll say! Oh, we know how to act with the nobility!
Frau Heinecke. There was a baron here once--a gentleman friend of Herr Kurt. Don't you remember, Father? He came to ask after Alma--But a count! we never had a count!
Robert. Who did you say had been here, Mother?
(Enter Count Trast, a man between forty and fifty, with gray hair and a long, blond beard. He is dressed with careless foreign elegance. Robert rushes to him and takes his hand.)
Trast. (Aside to Robert) How is this? Hasn't the home fever abated yet! (Aloud) So here we have the long-expected son! (Shakes his hand) Do you know, my fine people, that a sort of foster-son of yours is standing here? The friendship with this dear old comrade of mine gives me almost a right to that title!
(Heinecke tiptoes out of the door.)
Frau Heinecke. Wouldn't the Count like a piece of pound-cake? There is still some there.
Trast. Thanks, I shall be glad--I certainly shall!