It must not be imagined that he was a wearisome hypochondriac.  He was really much too well-bred to be a nuisance.  He had an eye for the small weaknesses of humanity.  But it was a good-natured eye.  He made a restful, easy, pleasant companion for the hours between dinner and bedtime.  We spent three evenings together, and then I had to leave Naples in a hurry to look after a friend who had fallen seriously ill in Taormina.  Having nothing to do, Il Conde came to see me off at the station.  I was somewhat upset, and his idleness was always ready to take a kindly form.  He was by no means an indolent man.

He went along the train peering into the carriages for a good seat for me, and then remained talking cheerily from below.  He declared he would miss me that evening very much and announced his intention of going after dinner to listen to the band in the public garden, the Villa Nazionale.  He would amuse himself by hearing excellent music and looking at the best society.  There would be a lot of people, as usual.

I seem to see him yet—­his raised face with a friendly smile under the thick moustaches, and his kind, fatigued eyes.  As the train began to move, he addressed me in two languages:  first in French, saying, “Bon voyage”; then, in his very good, somewhat emphatic English, encouragingly, because he could see my concern:  “All will—­be—­well—­yet!”

My friend’s illness having taken a decidedly favourable turn, I returned to Naples on the tenth day.  I cannot say I had given much thought to Il Conde during my absence, but entering the dining-room I looked for him in his habitual place.  I had an idea he might have gone back to Sorrento to his piano and his books and his fishing.  He was great friends with all the boatmen, and fished a good deal with lines from a boat.  But I made out his white head in the crowd of heads, and even from a distance noticed something unusual in his attitude.  Instead of sitting erect, gazing all round with alert urbanity, he drooped over his plate.  I stood opposite him for some time before he looked up, a little wildly, if such a strong word can be used in connection with his correct appearance.

“Ah, my dear sir!  Is it you?” he greeted me.  “I hope all is well.”

He was very nice about my friend.  Indeed, he was always nice, with the niceness of people whose hearts are genuinely humane.  But this time it cost him an effort.  His attempts at general conversation broke down into dullness.  It occurred to me he might have been indisposed.  But before I could frame the inquiry he muttered: 

“You find me here very sad.”

“I am sorry for that,” I said.  “You haven’t had bad news, I hope?”

It was very kind of me to take an interest.  No.  It was not that.  No bad news, thank God.  And he became very still as if holding his breath.  Then, leaning forward a little, and in an odd tone of awed embarrassment, he took me into his confidence.