, and
who, with his fine sharp ears, caught every word that they said. Aaron's
back was broad enough, and his shoulders square, and his head rather
small and fairish and well-shaped--and Francis was intrigued. He wanted
to know, was the man English. He _looked_ so English--yet he might
be--he might perhaps be Danish, Scandinavian, or Dutch. Therefore, the
elegant young man watched and listened with all his ears.

The waiter who had brought Aaron his soup now came very free and easy,
to ask for further orders.

"What would you like to drink? Wine? Chianti? Or white wine? Or
beer?"--The old-fashioned "Sir" was dropped. It is too old-fashioned
now, since the war.

"What SHOULD I drink?" said Aaron, whose acquaintance with wines was not
very large.

"Half-litre of Chianti: that is very good," said the waiter, with the
air of a man who knew only too well how to bring up his betters, and
train them in the way they should go.

"All right," said Aaron.

The welcome sound of these two magic words, All Right! was what the
waiter most desired. "All right! Yes! All Right!" This is the pith, the
marrow, the sum and essence of the English language to a southerner. Of
course it is not _all right_. It is _Or-rye_--and one word at that. The
blow that would be given to most foreign waiters, if they were forced
to realize that the famous _orye_ was really composed of two words, and
spelt _all right_, would be too cruel, perhaps.

"Half litre Chianti. Orye," said the waiter. And we'll let him say it.

"ENGLISH!" whispered Francis melodramatically in the ear of Angus. "I
THOUGHT so. The flautist."

Angus put in his monocle, and stared at the oblivious shoulders of
Aaron, without apparently seeing anything. "Yes. Obviously English,"
said Angus, pursing like a bird.

"Oh, but I heard him," whispered Francis emphatically. "Quite," said
Angus. "But quite inoffensive."

"Oh, but Angus, my dear--he's the FLAUTIST. Don't you remember? The
divine bit of Scriabin. At least I believe it was Scriabin.--But
PERFECTLY DIVINE!!! I adore the flute above all things--" And Francis
placed his hand on Angus' arm, and rolled his eyes--Lay this to the
credit of a bottle of Lacrimae Cristi, if you like.

"Yes. So do I," said Angus, again looking archly through the monocle,
and seeing nothing. "I wonder what he's doing here."

"Don't you think we might ASK him?" said Francis, in a vehement whisper.
"After all, we are the only three English people