shot. Algy came up with cigarettes, and she at once began to smoke, with that peculiar heavy intensity of a nervous woman.
Aaron did not say anything—did not know what to say. He was peculiarly conscious of the woman sitting next to him, her arm near his. She smoked heavily, in silence, as if abstracted, a sort of cloud on her level, dark brows. Her hair was dark, but a softish brown, not black, and her skin was fair. Her bosom would be white.—Why Aaron should have had this thought, he could not for the life of him say.
Manfredi, her husband, rolled his blue eyes and grimaced as he laughed at old Lanti. But it was obvious that his attention was diverted sideways, towards his wife. Aaron, who was tired of nursing a tea-cup, placed in on a table and resumed his seat in silence. But suddenly the little Marchese whipped out his cigarette-case, and making a little bow, presented it to Aaron, saying:
"Won't you smoke?"
"Thank you," said Aaron.
"Turkish that side—Virginia there—you see."
"Thank you, Turkish," said Aaron.
The little officer in his dove-grey and yellow uniform snapped his box shut again, and presented a light.
"You are new in Florence?" he said, as he presented the match.
"Four days," said Aaron.
"And I hear you are musical."
"I play the flute—no more."
"Ah, yes—but then you play it as an artist, not as an accomplishment."
"But how do you know?" laughed Aaron.
"I was told so—and I believe it."
"That's nice of you, anyhow—But you are a musician too."
"Yes—we are both musicians—my wife and I."
Manfredi looked at his wife. She flicked the ash off her cigarette.
"What sort?" said Aaron.
