come into money as well. Rich as Croesus, and still lives on
nineteen-and-two-pence a week. Though it's nearly double, of course,
what it used to be. No wonder he looks anxious. They disapprove of
me--oh, quite right, quite right from their own point of view. Where
would their money be otherwise? It wouldn't last long if I laid hands
on it--" he made a devilish quizzing face. "But you know, they get on
my nerves. Little old maids, you know, little old maids. I'm sure I'm
surprised at their patience with me.--But when people are patient
with you, you want to spit gall at them. Don't you? Ha-ha-ha! Poor old
Algy.--Did I lay it on him tonight, or did I miss him?"

"I think you got him," said Aaron.

"He'll never forgive me. Depend on it, he'll never forgive me. Ha-ha! I
like to be unforgiven. It adds ZEST to one's intercourse with people, to
know that they'll never forgive one. Ha-ha-ha! Little old maids, who do
their knitting with their tongues. Poor old Algy--he drops his stitches
now. Ha-ha-ha!--Must be eighty, I should say."

Aaron laughed. He had never met a man like Argyle before--and he could
not help being charmed. The other man had a certain wicked whimsicality
that was very attractive, when levelled against someone else, and not
against oneself. He must have been very handsome in his day, with his
natural dignity, and his clean-shaven strong square face. But now his
face was all red and softened and inflamed, his eyes had gone small and
wicked under his bushy grey brows. Still he had a presence. And his grey
hair, almost gone white, was still handsome.

"And what are you going to do in Florence?" asked Argyle.

Aaron explained.

"Well," said Argyle. "Make what you can out of them, and then go. Go
before they have time to do the dirty on you. If they think you want
anything from them, they'll treat you like a dog, like a dog. Oh,
they're very frightened of anybody who wants anything of them:
frightened to death. I see nothing of them.--Live by myself--see nobody.
Can't stand it, you know: their silly little teaparties--simply can't
stand it. No, I live alone--and shall die alone.--At least, I sincerely
hope so. I should be sorry to have any of them hanging round."

The restaurant was empty, the pale, malarial waiter--he had of course
contracted malaria during the war--was looking purple round the eyes.
But Argyle callously sat on. Aaron therefore rose to his feet.

"Oh, I'm coming, I'm coming," said Argy