More than ever I felt myself a swindler. I had wriggled into the Count’s confidence on false pretences; my hat was a lie. I felt that I ought to do something to clear up the misunderstanding. But the Count was so busy complaining to me about his father that I had no opportunity to put in my little explanation. I didn’t listen very attentively, I confess, to what he was saying. In the course of a year at Oxford, I had heard so many young men complain of their fathers. Not enough money, too much interference--the story was a stale one. And at that time, moreover, I was taking a very high philosophical line about this sort of thing. I was pretending that people didn’t interest me--only books, only ideas. What a fool one can make of oneself at that age! “_Eccoci_,” said the Count. We halted in front of the Café Pedrochi. “He always comes here for his coffee.” And where else, indeed, should he come for his coffee? Who, in Padua, would go anywhere else? We found him sitting out on the terrace at the farther end of the building. I had never, I thought, seen a jollier-looking old gentleman. The old Count had a red weather-beaten face, with white moustaches bristling gallantly upwards and a white imperial in the grand Risorgimento manner of Victor Emmanuel the Second. Under the white tufty eyebrows, and set in the midst of a webwork of fine wrinkles, the eyes were brown and bright like a robin’s. His long nose looked, somehow, more practically useful than the ordinary human nose, as though made for fine judicial sniffing, for delicate burrowing and probing. Thick set and strong, he sat there solidly in his chair, his knees apart, his hands clasped over the knob of his cane, carrying his paunch with dignity, nobly I had almost said, before him. He was dressed all in white linen--for the weather was still very hot--and his wide grey hat was tilted rakishly forward over his left eye. It gave one a real satisfaction to look at him; he was so complete, so perfect in his kind. The young Count introduced me. “This is an English gentleman. Signor....” He turned to me for the name. “Oosselay,” I said, having learnt by experience that that was as near as any Italian could be expected to get to it. “Signor Oosselay,” the young Count continued, “is an artist.” “Well, not exactly an artist,” I was beginning; but he would not let me make an end. “He is also very much interested in ancient art,” he continued. “To-morrow I am taking him to Dolo to see the frescoes. I know he will like them.” We sat down at the old Count’s table; critically he looked at me and nodded. “_Benissimo_,” he said, and then added, “Let’s hope you’ll be able to do something to help us sell the things.” This was startling. I looked in some perplexity towards the young Count. He was frowning angrily at his father. The old gentleman had evidently said the wrong thing; he had spoken, I guessed, too soon. At any rate, he took his son’s hint and glided off serenely on another tack.