d to be. I wish something would rouse her up, you know. The war
seemed to take her life away. Here in Florence are so many amateurs.
Very good indeed. We can have very good chamber-music indeed. I hope it
will cheer her up and make her quite herself again. I was away for such
long periods, at the front.--And it was not good for her to be alone.--I
am hoping now all will be better."

So saying, the little, odd officer switched on the lights of the
long salon. It was a handsome room in the Italian mode of the Empire
period--beautiful old faded tapestry panels--reddish--and some ormolu
furniture--and other things mixed in--rather conglomerate, but pleasing,
all the more pleasing. It was big, not too empty, and seemed to belong
to human life, not to show and shut-upedness. The host was happy showing
it.

"Of course the flat in Paris is more luxurious than this," he said. "But
I prefer this. I prefer it here." There was a certain wistfulness as he
looked round, then began to switch off the lights.

They returned to the little salotta. The Marchesa was seated in a low
chair. She wore a very thin white blouse, that showed her arms and her
throat. She was a full-breasted, soft-skinned woman, though not stout.

"Make the cocktails then, Manfredi," she said. "Do you find this room
very cold?" she asked of Aaron.

"Not a bit cold," he said.

"The stove goes all the time," she said, "but without much effect."

"You wear such thin clothes," he said.

"Ah, no, the stove should give heat enough. Do sit down. Will you smoke?
There are cigarettes--and cigars, if you prefer them."

"No, I've got my own, thanks."

She took her own cigarette from her gold case.

"It is a fine room, for music, the big room," said he.

"Yes, quite. Would you like to play for us some time, do you think?"

"Do you want me to? I mean does it interest you?"

"What--the flute?"

"No--music altogether--"

"Music altogether--! Well! I used to love it. Now--I'm not sure.
Manfredi lives for it, almost."

"For that and nothing else?" asked Aaron.

"No, no! No, no! Other things as well."

"But you don't like it much any more?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I don't. I'm not sure."

"You don't look forward to the Saturday mornings?" he asked.

"Perhaps I don't--but for Manfredi's sake, of course, I do. But for his
sake more than my own, I admit. And I think he knows it."

"A crowd of people in one's house--" said Aaron.

"Yes, the people. But it's