t look ill--unless
it were nerves. She had that peculiar heavy remote quality of
pre-occupation and neurosis.

The streets of Florence were very full this Sunday evening, almost
impassable, crowded particularly with gangs of grey-green soldiers. The
three made their way brokenly, and with difficulty. The Italian was in a
constant state of returning salutes. The grey-green, sturdy, unsoldierly
soldiers looked at the woman as she passed.

"I am sure you had better take a carriage," said Manfredi.

"No--I don't mind it."

"Do you feel at home in Florence?" Aaron asked her.

"Yes--as much as anywhere. Oh, yes--quite at home."

"Do you like it as well as anywhere?" he asked.

"Yes--for a time. Paris for the most part."

"Never America?"

"No, never America. I came when I was quite a little girl to
Europe--Madrid--Constantinople--Paris. I hardly knew America at all."

Aaron remembered that Francis had told him, the Marchesa's father had
been ambassador to Paris.

"So you feel you have no country of your own?"

"I have Italy. I am Italian now, you know."

Aaron wondered why she spoke so muted, so numbed. Manfredi seemed really
attached to her--and she to him. They were so simple with one another.

They came towards the bridge where they should part.

"Won't you come and have a cocktail?" she said.

"Now?" said Aaron.

"Yes. This is the right time for a cocktail. What time is it, Manfredi?"

"Half past six. Do come and have one with us," said the Italian. "We
always take one about this time."

Aaron continued with them over the bridge. They had the first floor of
an old palazzo opposite, a little way up the hill. A man-servant opened
the door.

"If only it will be warm," she said. "The apartment is almost impossible
to keep warm. We will sit in the little room."

Aaron found himself in a quite warm room with shaded lights and a
mixture of old Italian stiffness and deep soft modern comfort. The
Marchesa went away to take off her wraps, and the Marchese chatted with
Aaron. The little officer was amiable and kind, and it was evident he
liked his guest.

"Would you like to see the room where we have music?" he said. "It is
a fine room for the purpose--we used before the war to have music
every Saturday morning, from ten to twelve: and all friends might come.
Usually we had fifteen or twenty people. Now we are starting again. I
myself enjoy it so much. I am afraid my wife isn't so enthusiastic as
she use