now in my overcoat pocket," he said, "if you like."

"Have you? Yes!" She was never hurried: always slow and resonant, so
that the echoes of her voice seemed to linger. "Yes--do get it. Do get
it. And play in the other room--quite--quite without accompaniment.
Do--and try me."

"And you will tell me what you feel?"

"Yes."

Aaron went out to his overcoat. When he returned with his flute, which
he was screwing together, Manfredi had come with the tray and the three
cocktails. The Marchesa took her glass.

"Listen, Manfredi," she said. "Mr. Sisson is going to play, quite alone
in the sala. And I am going to sit here and listen."

"Very well," said Manfredi. "Drink your cocktail first. Are you going to
play without music?"

"Yes," said Aaron.

"I'll just put on the lights for you."

"No--leave it dark. Enough light will come in from here."

"Sure?" said Manfredi.

"Yes."

The little soldier was an intruder at the moment. Both the others felt
it so. But they bore him no grudge. They knew it was they who were
exceptional, not he. Aaron swallowed his drink, and looked towards the
door.

"Sit down, Manfredi. Sit still," said the Marchesa.

"Won't you let me try some accompaniment?" said the soldier.

"No. I shall just play a little thing from memory," said Aaron.

"Sit down, dear. Sit down," said the Marchesa to her husband.

He seated himself obediently. The flash of bright yellow on the grey of
his uniform seemed to make him like a chaffinch or a gnome.

Aaron retired to the other room, and waited awhile, to get back the
spell which connected him with the woman, and gave the two of them this
strange isolation, beyond the bounds of life, as it seemed.

He caught it again. And there, in the darkness of the big room, he put
his flute to his lips, and began to play. It was a clear, sharp, lilted
run-and-fall of notes, not a tune in any sense of the word, and yet
a melody, a bright, quick sound of pure animation, a bright, quick,
animate noise, running and pausing. It was like a bird's singing, in
that it had no human emotion or passion or intention or meaning--a
ripple and poise of animate sound. But it was unlike a bird's singing,
in that the notes followed clear and single one after the other, in
their subtle gallop. A nightingale is rather like that--a wild sound.
To read all the human pathos into nightingales' singing is nonsense.
A wild, savage, non-human lurch and squander of sound, beautiful, but