on one lounging hip, gracefully, and bent forward in a confidential manner, and said:
"Do excuse me. But I must ask you if it was you we heard playing the flute so perfectly wonderfully, just before dinner."
The voice was confidential and ingratiating. Aaron, relieved from the world's stress and seeing life anew in the rosy glow of half a litre of good old Chianti—the war was so near but gone by—looked up at the dark blue, ingenuous, well-adapted eyes of our friend Francis, and smiling, said:
"Yes, I saw you on the balcony as well."
"Oh, did you notice us?" plunged Francis. "But wasn't it an extraordinary affair?"
"Very," said Aaron. "I couldn't make it out, could you?"
"Oh," cried Francis. "I never try. It's all much too new and complicated for me.—But perhaps you know Italy?"
"No, I don't," said Aaron.
"Neither do we. And we feel rather stunned. We had only just arrived—and then—Oh!" Francis put up his hand to his comely brow and rolled his eyes. "I feel perfectly overwhelmed with it still."
He here allowed himself to sink friendlily into the vacant chair opposite Aaron's.
"Yes, I thought it was a bit exciting," said Aaron. "I wonder what will become of him—"
"—Of the one who climbed for the flag, you mean? No!—But wasn't it perfectly marvellous! Oh, incredible, quite incredible!—And then your flute to finish it all! Oh! I felt it only wanted that.—I haven't got over it yet. But your playing was marvellous, really marvellous. Do you know, I can't forget it. You are a professional musician, of course."
"If you mean I play for a living," said Aaron. "I have played in orchestras in London."
"Of course! Of course! I knew you must be a professional. But don't you give private recitals, too?"
"No, I never have."
"Oh!" cried Francis, catching his breath. "I can't believe it. But you play marvellously! Oh, I just loved it, it simply
