"Do you feel at home in Florence?" Aaron asked her.
"Yes—as much as anywhere. Oh, yes—quite at home."
"Do you like it as well as anywhere?" he asked.
"Yes—for a time. Paris for the most part."
"Never America?"
"No, never America. I came when I was quite a little girl to Europe—Madrid—Constantinople—Paris. I hardly knew America at all."
Aaron remembered that Francis had told him, the Marchesa's father had been ambassador to Paris.
"So you feel you have no country of your own?"
"I have Italy. I am Italian now, you know."
Aaron wondered why she spoke so muted, so numbed. Manfredi seemed really attached to her—and she to him. They were so simple with one another.
They came towards the bridge where they should part.
"Won't you come and have a cocktail?" she said.
"Now?" said Aaron.
"Yes. This is the right time for a cocktail. What time is it, Manfredi?"
"Half past six. Do come and have one with us," said the Italian. "We always take one about this time."
Aaron continued with them over the bridge. They had the first floor of an old palazzo opposite, a little way up the hill. A man-servant opened the door.
"If only it will be warm," she said. "The apartment is almost impossible to keep warm. We will sit in the little room."
Aaron found himself in a quite warm room with shaded lights and a mixture of old Italian stiffness and deep soft modern comfort. The Marchesa went away to take off her wraps, and the Marchese chatted with Aaron. The little officer was amiable and kind, and it was evident he liked his guest.
"Would you like to see the room where we have music?" he said. "It is a fine room for the purpose—we used before the war to have music every Saturday morning, from ten to
