[The Count's workroom in a little outbuilding devoted to the business of the estate. A wide glass door back center, with a window on either side of it, looks on a terrace and a quaint old garden beyond. At the right and left are doors to other offices.
Up right stands the Count's huge desk and in front of it, to the right, a small table on which is a typewriting machine. Up left is a long table covered with a litter of papers, books and pamphlets. Down left, against the wall, stands a little sofa.
It is a bright summer morning. The Count sits at his desk. Domokos, an elderly clerk, is making a report to him.]
Domokos—And about that fellow, Mate. He's the most useless man about the place. An absolute disgrace to the dairy.
Count—And the favorite of Mr. Juhasz.
Domokos—Yes, excellency. I'd have discharged Mate long ago, but Mr. Juhasz won't let me. He's sorry for the man.
Count—Sorry for him!
Domokos—Mate has such a glib tongue he always manages to get around Mr. Juhasz somehow. But this time . . . he hadn't turned up for three days.
