ush himself backwards
through the wall. Lady Franks switched on more lights into the vast and
voluminous crystal chandelier which hung like some glory-cloud above the
room's centre. And Arthur's wife sang sweet little French songs, and _Ye
Banks and Braes_, and _Caro mio ben_, which goes without saying: and so
on. She had quite a nice voice and was quite adequately trained. Which
is enough said. Aaron had all his nerves on edge.

Then he had to play the flute. Arthur strolled upstairs with him,
arm-in-arm, where he went to fetch his instrument.

"I find music in the home rather a strain, you know," said Arthur.

"Cruel strain. I quite agree," said Aaron.

"I don't mind it so much in the theatre--or even a concert--where
there are a lot of other people to take the edge off-- But after a good
dinner--"

"It's medicine," said Aaron.

"Well, you know, it really is, to me. It affects my inside." Aaron
laughed. And then, in the yellow drawing-room, blew into his pipe and
played. He knew so well that Arthur, the Major, the Major's wife, the
Colonel, and Sir William thought it merely an intolerable bore. However,
he played. His hostess even accompanied him in a Mozart bit.

CHAPTER XIV. XX SETTEMBRE

Aaron was awakened in the morning by the soft entrance of the butler
with the tray: it was just seven o'clock. Lady Franks' household was
punctual as the sun itself.

But our hero roused himself with a wrench. The very act of lifting
himself from the pillow was like a fight this morning. Why? He
recognized his own wrench, the pain with which he struggled under the
necessity to move. Why shouldn't he want to move? Why not? Because he
didn't want the day in front--the plunge into a strange country, towards
nowhere, with no aim in view. True, he said that ultimately he wanted to
join Lilly. But this was hardly more than a sop, an excuse for his own
irrational behaviour. He was breaking loose from one connection after
another; and what for? Why break every tie? Snap, snap, snap went the
bonds and ligatures which bound him to the life that had formed him, the
people he had loved or liked. He found all his affections snapping off,
all the ties which united him with his own people coming asunder. And
why? In God's name, why? What was there instead?

There was nothingness. There was just himself, and blank nothingness.
He had perhaps a faint sense of Lilly ahead of him; an impulse in that
direction, or else merely an il