`Youwillsignnothing，Laura，withoutfirstlookingatit？’

　　`Certainlynot，Marian。WhateverIcanharmlesslyandhonestlydotohelphimIwilldo——forthesakeofmakingyourlifeandmine，love，aseasyandashappyaspossible。ButIwilldonothingignorantly，whichwemight，oneday，havereasontofeelashamedof。Letussaynomoreaboutitnow。Youhavegotyourhaton——supposewegoanddreamawaytheafternooninthegrounds？’

　　Onleavingthehousewedirectedourstepstothenearestshade。

　　Aswepassedanopenspaceamongthetreesinfrontofthehouse，therewasCountFosco，slowlywalkingbackwardsandforwardsonthegrass，sunninghimselfinthefullblazeofthehotJuneafternoon。Hehadabroadstrawhaton，withaviolet-colouredribbonroundit。Ablueblouse，withprofusewhitefancy-workoverthebosom，coveredhisprodigiousbody，andwasgirtabouttheplacewherehiswaistmightoncehavebeenwithabroadscarletleatherbelt。Nankeentrousers，displayingmorewhitefancy-workovertheankles，andpurplemoroccoslippers，adornedhislowerextremities。HewassingingFigaro’sfamoussongintheBarberofSeville。withthatcrisplyfluentvocalisationwhichisneverheardfromanyotherthananItalianthroat，accompanyinghimselfontheconcertina，whichheplayedwithecstaticthrowings-upofhisarms，andgracefultwistingsandturningsofhishead，likeafatStCeciliamasqueradinginmaleattire。`Figaroqua！Figarola！Figarosu！Figarogiu！’sangtheCount，jauntilytossinguptheconcertinaatarm’slength，andbowingtous，ononesideoftheinstrument，withtheairygraceandeleganceofFigarohimselfattwentyvicarsofage。

　　`Takemywordforit，Laura，thatmanknowssomethingofSirPercival’sembarrassments，’Isaid，aswereturnedtheCount’ssalutationfromasafedistance。

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