Aaron he said,
"You play the flute, I hear. May we hear you some time?"

"Yes," said Aaron, non-committal.

"Well, look here--come to tea tomorrow. I shall have some friends, and
Del Torre will play the piano. Come to tea tomorrow, will you?"

"Thank you, I will."

"And perhaps you'll bring your flute along."

"Don't you do any such thing, my boy. Make them entertain YOU, for
once.--They're always squeezing an entertainment out of somebody--"
and Argyle desperately emptied the remains of Algy's wine into his
own glass: whilst Algy stood as if listening to something far off, and
blinking terribly.

"Anyhow," he said at length, "you'll come, won't you? And bring the
flute if you feel like it."

"Don't you take that flute, my boy," persisted Argyle. "Don't think of
such a thing. If they want a concert, let them buy their tickets and go
to the Teatro Diana. Or to Marchesa del Torre's Saturday morning. She
can afford to treat them." Algy looked at Argyle, and blinked. "Well,"
he said. "I hope you'll get home all right, Argyle."

"Thank you for your courtesy, Algy. Won't you lend me your arm?"

As Algy was small and frail, somewhat shaky, and as Argyle was a finely
built, heavy man of fifty or more, the slap was unkind.

"Afraid I can't tonight. Good-night--"

Algy departed, so did little Mee, who had sat with a little delighted
disapproval on his tiny, bird-like face, without saying anything. And
even the Jew Rosen put away his deaf-machine and began awkwardly to take
his leave. His long nose was smiling to itself complacently at all the
things Argyle had been saying.

When he, too, had gone, Argyle arched his brows at Aaron, saying:

"Oh, my dear fellow, what a lot they are!--Little Mee--looking like an
innocent little boy. He's over seventy if he's a day. Well over seventy.
Well, you don't believe me. Ask his mother--ask his mother. She's
ninety-five. Old lady of ninety-five--" Argyle even laughed himself at
his own preposterousness.

"And then Algy--Algy's not a fool, you know. Oh, he can be most
entertaining, most witty, and amusing. But he's out of place here. He
should be in Kensington, dandling round the ladies' drawing rooms and
making his _mots_. They're rich, you know, the pair of them. Little Mee
used to boast that he lived on eleven-and-three-pence a week. Had to,
poor chap. But then what does a white mouse like that need? Makes a
heavy meal on a cheese-paring. Luck, you know--but of course he's