COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied
elegance a hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake
hands with his visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly
recollected that all the bookcases in the library were locked--in fact
theyve never been opened since we came from Venice--and as our
literary guests will probably use the library a good deal, I just ran
in to unlock everything.

SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose
theres a smoking room?

THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, you
understand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard?

SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's
obsolete costume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear
in the piece yourself.

THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I
had better explain the position, if it interests you.

SAVOYARD. Certainly.

THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your
world. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'm
not really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life
in Italy--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one: I am a
Count of the Holy Roman Empire.

SAVOYARD. Where's that?