He then turned and bowed ceremoniously to me, apparently quite aware of my presence, although he had not seemed to look in my direction.
“You are still in Buyda, Mr. Tyrrell. We had an idea you had left us.”
“For a time,” I replied lightly. “As becomes a wandering devotee of sport.”
“Sport! And you leave England?”
“For change.”
“Ah! like so many of your countrymen you are hard to satisfy. You would rather go far and fare worse than stay at home. Well, enterprise at the possible expense of comfort is admirable. Dare one conclude that our city here temporarily pleases you?”
I looked at him sharply, uncertain whether his speech was mere polite small-talk or covert sarcasm. Not that I cared, except so far as it interested me to note the various phases of the man’s character. The peculiar expression of his face made a perfect mask, far harder to see through even than Rallenstein’s impassiveness. There was, perhaps, the gleam of a sneer in the eyes—those unruly tell-tales, ever ready to contradict our words and betray us. But I was not certain, and answered simply:
“Yes, I enjoyed a few weeks’ sojourn in Buyda extremely. For the last week or two I have been staying a short way out in the country with a friend.”
Count Furello bowed in acknowledgment, as it were, of a piece of information which did not interest him deeply enough for words.
“You have not come, then, from the Geierthal, Count?” the Baroness inquired.