swept me away, after that scene in the street. It seemed to sum it all up, you know."
"Did it," said Aaron, rather grimly.
"But won't you come and have coffee with us at our table?" said Francis. "We should like it most awfully if you would."
"Yes, thank you," said Aaron, half-rising.
"But you haven't had your dessert," said Francis, laying a fatherly detaining hand on the arm of the other man. Aaron looked at the detaining hand.
"The dessert isn't much to stop for," he said. "I can take with me what I want." And he picked out a handful of dried figs.
The two went across to Angus' table.
"We're going to take coffee together," said Francis complacently, playing the host with a suave assurance that was rather amusing and charming in him.
"Yes. I'm very glad," said Angus. Let us give the show away: he was being wilfully nice. But he was quite glad; to be able to be so nice. Anything to have a bit of life going: especially a bit of pleased life. He looked at Aaron's comely, wine-warmed face with gratification.
"Have a Grand Marnier," he said. "I don't know how bad it is. Everything is bad now. They lay it down to the war as well. It used to be quite a decent drink. What the war had got to do with bad liqueurs, I don't know."
Aaron sat down in a chair at their table.
"But let us introduce ourselves," said Francis. "I am Francis—or really Franz Dekker—And this is Angus Guest, my friend."
"And my name is Aaron Sisson."
"What! What did you say?" said Francis, leaning forward. He, too, had sharp ears.
"Aaron Sisson."
"Aaron Sisson! Oh, but how amusing! What a nice name! "
"No better than yours, is it?"
"Mine! Franz Dekker! Oh, much more amusing, I think," said Francis archly.
