his soft, warm room. Luxurious it was. And luxurious
the deep, warm bed.

He was still asleep when the man came noiselessly in with the tray: and
it was morning. Aaron woke and sat up. He felt that the deep, warm bed,
and the soft, warm room had made him sleep too well: robbed him of his
night, like a narcotic. He preferred to be more uncomfortable and more
aware of the flight of the dark hours. It seemed numbing.

The footman in his grey house-jacket was neat and Italian and
sympathising. He gave good-morning in Italian--then softly arranged the
little table by the bedside, and put out the toast and coffee and butter
and boiled egg and honey, with silver and delicate china. Aaron watched
the soft, catlike motions of the man. The dark eyes glanced once at the
blond man, leaning on his elbow on the pillow. Aaron's face had that
watchful, half-amused expression. The man said something in Italian.
Aaron shook his head, laughed, and said:

"Tell me in English."

The man went softly to the window curtains, and motioned them with his
hand.

"Yes, do," said Aaron.

So the man drew the buff-coloured silk curtains: and Aaron, sitting
in bed, could see away beyond red roofs of a town, and in the further
heaven great snowy mountains.

"The Alps," he said in surprise.

"Gli Alpi--si, signore." The man bowed, gathered up Aaron's clothes, and
silently retired.

Aaron watched through the window. It was a frosty morning at the end
of September, with a clear blue morning-sky, Alpine, and the watchful,
snow-streaked mountain tops bunched in the distance, as if waiting.
There they were, hovering round, circling, waiting. They reminded him
of marvellous striped sky-panthers circling round a great camp: the
red-roofed city. Aaron looked, and looked again. In the near distance,
under the house elm-tree tops were yellowing. He felt himself changing
inside his skin.

So he turned away to his coffee and eggs. A little silver egg-cup with a
curious little frill round it: honey in a frail, iridescent glass bowl,
gold-iridescent: the charm of delicate and fine things. He smiled half
mockingly to himself. Two instincts played in him: the one, an instinct
for fine, delicate things: he had attractive hands; the other, an
inclination to throw the dainty little table with all its niceties out
of the window. It evoked a sort of devil in him.

He took his bath: the man had brought back his things: he dressed and
went downstairs. No one in