was a war-hero with shattered nerves. And let him depreciate his own experiences as much as he liked, the young man with the monocle kept tight hold on his prestige as a war hero. Only for himself, though. He by no means insisted that anyone else should be war-bitten.
Francis was one of those men who, like women, can set up the sympathetic flow and make a fellow give himself away without realising what he is doing. So there sat our friend Aaron, amusingly unbosoming himself of all his history and experiences, drawn out by the arch, subtle attentiveness of the handsome Francis. Angus listened, too, with pleased amusedness on his pale, emaciated face, pursing his shrunken jaw. And Aaron sipped various glasses of the liqueur, and told all his tale as if it was a comedy. A comedy it seemed, too, at that hour. And a comedy no doubt it was. But mixed, like most things in this life. Mixed.
It was quite late before this séance broke up: and the waiter itching to get rid of the fellows.
"Well, now," said Francis, as he rose from the table and settled his elegant waist, resting on one hip, as usual. "We shall see you in the morning, I hope. You say you are going to Venice. Why? Have you some engagement in Venice?"
"No," said Aaron. "I only was going to look for a friend—Rawdon Lilly."
"Rawdon Lilly! Why, is he in Venice? Oh, I've heard such a lot about him. I should like so much to meet him. But I heard he was in Germany—"
"I don't know where he is."
"Angus! Didn't we hear that Lilly was in Germany?"
"Yes, in Munich, being psychoanalysed, I believe it was."
Aaron looked rather blank.
"But have you anything to take you to Venice? It's such a bad climate in the winter. Why not come with us to Florence?" said Francis.
Aaron wavered. He really did not know what to do.
"Think about it," said Francis, laying his hand on Aaron's arm. "Think about it tonight. And we'll meet in the morning. At what time?"
