thought we had settled to go straight through via Pisa." Francis was graceful in everything—in his tall, elegant figure, in the poses of his handsome head, in the modulation of his voice.
"Yes, but I see we can go either way—either Pisa or Florence. And I thought it might be nice to look at Florence and Sienna and Orvieto. I believe they're very lovely," came the soft, precise voice of Angus, ending in a touch of odd emotion on the words "very lovely," as if it were a new experience to him to be using them.
"I'm sure they're marvellous. I'm quite sure they're marvellously beautiful," said Francis, in his assured, elegant way. "Well, then, Angus—suppose we do that, then?—When shall we start?"
Angus was the nervous insister. Francis was quite occupied with his own thoughts and calculations and curiosity. For he was very curious, not to say inquisitive. And at the present moment he had a new subject to ponder.
This new subject was Aaron, who sat with his back to our new couple, and who, with his fine sharp ears, caught every word that they said. Aaron's back was broad enough, and his shoulders square, and his head rather small and fairish and well-shaped—and Francis was intrigued. He wanted to know, was the man English. He looked so English—yet he might be—he might perhaps be Danish, Scandinavian, or Dutch. Therefore, the elegant young man watched and listened with all his ears.
The waiter who had brought Aaron his soup now came very free and easy, to ask for further orders.
"What would you like to drink? Wine? Chianti? Or white wine? Or beer?"—The old-fashioned "Sir" was dropped. It is too old-fashioned now, since the war.
"What should I drink?" said Aaron, whose acquaintance with wines was not very large.
"Half-litre of Chianti: that is very good," said the waiter, with the air of a man who knew only too well how to bring up his betters, and train them in the way they should go.
"All right," said Aaron.
