There was, of course, a
quantity of diverse types: showy old fellows with white moustaches, fat
men, thin men, officers in uniform; but what predominated, he told
me, was the South Italian type of young man, with a colourless, clear
complexion, red lips, jet-black little moustache and liquid black eyes
so wonderfully effective in leering or scowling.
Withdrawing from the throng, the Count shared a little table in front
of the cafe with a young man of just such a type. Our friend had some
lemonade. The young man was sitting moodily before an empty glass.
He looked up once, and then looked down again. He also tilted his hat
forward. Like this--
The Count made the gesture of a man pulling his hat down over his brow,
and went on:
"I think to myself: he is sad; something is wrong with him; young men
have their troubles. I take no notice of him, of course. I pay for my
lemonade, and go away."
Strolling about in the neighbourhood of the band, the Count thinks he
saw twice that young man wandering alone in the crowd.
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