"Well, sir, are you pulling round?... It's over a week since I saw you ... but I heard that you were ill."
Pauws walked about the room impatiently, sat down petulantly by the window.
"Shave me very nicely, won't you, Figaro?" said Lot. "For I look awful with this beard on me.... Yes, you'll find everything on the wash-hand-stand."
"I've brought your own razor, sir."
"That's right, Figaro.... I'm glad to see your face again. Is there no news?... Yes, it's a delight to feel your velvety blade gliding down my cheek.... As a matter of fact, it does one's skin a heap of good to go unshaved for a week or so.... But it's heavenly to feel one's face smooth again.... That gentleman, Figaro, sitting over there, is my father.... But he shaves himself, so don't reckon on him as a customer.... I say, Figaro, you might give me a clean suit of pyjamas: there, the second drawer from the top.... Yes, one of the silk ones, with the blue stripes.... I believe in silk pyjamas, when you're ill.... Yes, just valet me, now that you're here, Figaro.... Help me on ... that's right ... and now pitch the dirty ones into the clothes-basket.... Give me a clean handkerchief.... And now brush my hair: you'll find some eau-de-quinine over there.... And a wet towel for my hands, please.... Ah, I feel a king, even after this first, short clean-up!... Thank you, Figaro."
"Come again to-morrow, sir?"
"Yes, do ... or no, let's say the day after ... to spare my skin, you know. Day after to-morrow. Good-bye, Figaro...."
The barber went away. Pauws said:
"How can you be such a baby, Lot?"
"Father, come and sit here now. Look, I'm a different creature. I feel ever so much revived with my soft skin and my silk pyjamas. Tuck me in at the back, will you?... Have a grape!..."