f, and went silently to bed. Aaron turned over to sleep,
rather resenting the sound of so many words. What difference did it
make, anyhow? In the morning, however, when he saw the other man's pale,
closed, rather haughty face, he realised that something _had_ happened.
Lilly was courteous and even affable: but with a curious cold space
between him and Aaron. Breakfast passed, and Aaron knew that he must
leave. There was something in Lilly's bearing which just showed him the
door. In some surprise and confusion, and in some anger, not unmingled
with humorous irony, he put his things in his bag. He put on his hat and
coat. Lilly was seated rather stiffly writing.

"Well," said Aaron. "I suppose we shall meet again."

"Oh, sure to," said Lilly, rising from his chair. "We are sure to run
across one another."

"When are you going?" asked Aaron.

"In a few days' time."

"Oh, well, I'll run in and see you before you go, shall I?"

"Yes, do."

Lilly escorted his guest to the top of the stairs, shook hands, and then
returned into his own room, closing the door on himself.

Aaron did not find his friend at home when he called. He took it rather
as a slap in the face. But then he knew quite well that Lilly had made
a certain call on his, Aaron's soul: a call which he, Aaron, did not
at all intend to obey. If in return the soul-caller chose to shut his
street-door in the face of the world-friend--well, let it be quits. He
was not sure whether he felt superior to his unworldly enemy or not. He
rather thought he did.

CHAPTER XI. MORE PILLAR OF SALT

The opera season ended, Aaron was invited by Cyril Scott to join a group
of musical people in a village by the sea. He accepted, and spent a
pleasant month. It pleased the young men musically-inclined and bohemian
by profession to patronise the flautist, whom they declared marvellous.
Bohemians with well-to-do parents, they could already afford to squander
a little spasmodic and self-gratifying patronage. And Aaron did not mind
being patronised. He had nothing else to do.

But the party broke up early in September. The flautist was detained a
few days at a country house, for the amusement of the guests. Then he
left for London.

In London he found himself at a loose end. A certain fretful dislike
of the patronage of indifferent young men, younger than himself, and a
certain distaste for regular work in the orchestra made him look round.
He wanted something else. He