uon
'appetito," withdrew their heads and shoulders, slammed the door, and
departed.

Then the train set off also--and shortly after six arrived in Florence.
It was debated what should Aaron do in Florence. The young men had
engaged a room at Bertolini's hotel, on the Lungarno. Bertolini's was
not expensive--but Aaron knew that his friends would not long endure
hotel life. However, he went along with the other two, trusting to find
a cheaper place on the morrow.

It was growing quite dark as they drove to the hotel, but still was
light enough to show the river rustling, the Ponte Vecchio spanning its
little storeys across the flood, on its low, heavy piers: and some sort
of magic of the darkening, varied houses facing, on the other side of
the stream. Of course they were all enchanted.

"I knew," said Francis, "we should love it."

Aaron was told he could have a little back room and pension terms for
fifteen lire a day, if he stayed at least fifteen days. The exchange
was then at forty-five. So fifteen lire meant just six-shillings-and-six
pence a day, without extras. Extras meant wine, tea, butter, and light.
It was decided he should look for something cheaper next day.

By the tone of the young men, he now gathered that they would prefer it
if he took himself off to a cheaper place. They wished to be on their
own.

"Well, then," said Francis, "you will be in to lunch here, won't you?
Then we'll see you at lunch."

It was as if both the young men had drawn in their feelers now. They
were afraid of finding the new man an incubus. They wanted to wash their
hands of him. Aaron's brow darkened.

"Perhaps it was right your love to dissemble
But why did you kick me down stairs?..."

Then morning found him out early, before his friends had arisen. It was
sunny again. The magic of Florence at once overcame him, and he forgot
the bore of limited means and hotel costs. He went straight out of the
hotel door, across the road, and leaned on the river parapet. There ran
the Arno: not such a flood after all, but a green stream with shoals of
pebbles in its course. Across, and in the delicate shadow of the early
sun, stood the opposite Lungarno, the old flat houses, pink, or white,
or grey stone, with their green shutters, some closed, some opened. It
had a flowery effect, the skyline irregular against the morning light.
To the right the delicate Trinita bridge, to the left, the old bridge
wi