Re: The Aristocrat/The Carnie
There were few things in the Count's life that stirred the heart under the gorgeous waistcoat, a glimpse of cherry-red silk at the button of his jacket and many that did not, it was veined like marble with all the histories of things that had almost been. Hardship made one hardy, or it stripped flesh from bone as unforgiving as loss of reputation. Passion was something the Count kept close, if he showed any signs of it at all. His beard he smoothed with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand and looked at the boy, thoughtfully. He was a rube, so unfinished he could hardly be a diamond and dirty. The Count had a horror of dirt. Of mud and blood, of raised voices and the smell of gunpowder.
"That is the wrong hand," he said, in his accented, a little imperious way. For it was. The Count wore no gloves, and his hands were very pale and very clean. His nails were burnished and his palms small, and he showed not the slightest inclination toward taking the boy's rather scarred paw. "Mr. Long." He looked between the hand and the boy's face, a smile that had the shadows of the sly. The Count smiled his own, shavings of sweet ice. "Count Razumovsky."
Abruptly, he stood. This was neither to avoid taking the boy's hand, not to disturb the waiter. His appetite for public eating, always shy had now fled entirely. "You have eaten every cake on the cart," which was not entirely true. It was exaggeration. "I have no desire to dine. You may walk." By this he meant, the Count would indulge the boy with company, a little.