chio, and the great dome of the cathedral in the
distance, in shadow-bulk in the cold-aired night of stars. Little trams
were running brilliant over the flat new bridge on the right. And from a
garden just below rose a tuft of palm-trees.

"You see," said the Marchesa, coming and standing close to Aaron, so
that she just touched him, "you can know the terrace, just by these palm
trees. And you are in the Nardini just across there, are you? On the top
floor, you said?"

"Yes, the top floor--one of the middle windows, I think."

"One that is always open now--and the others are shut. I have noticed
it, not connecting it with you."

"Yes, my window is always open."

She was leaning very slightly against him, as he stood. And he knew,
with the same kind of inevitability with which he knew he would one
day die, that he would be the lover of this woman. Nay, that he was her
lover already.

"Don't take cold," said Manfredi.

She turned at once indoors. Aaron caught a faint whiff of perfume from
the little orange trees in tubs round the wall.

"Will you get the flute?" she said as they entered.

"And will you sing?" he answered.

"Play first," she said.

He did as she wished. As the other night, he went into the big
music-room to play. And the stream of sound came out with the quick wild
imperiousness of the pipe. It had an immediate effect on her. She seemed
to relax the peculiar, drug-like tension which was upon her at all
ordinary times. She seemed to go still, and yielding. Her red mouth
looked as if it might moan with relief. She sat with her chin dropped
on her breast, listening. And she did not move. But she sat softly,
breathing rather quick, like one who has been hurt, and is soothed. A
certain womanly naturalness seemed to soften her.

And the music of the flute came quick, rather brilliant like a
call-note, or like a long quick message, half command. To her it was
like a pure male voice--as a blackbird's when he calls: a pure male
voice, not only calling, but telling her something, telling her
something, and soothing her soul to sleep. It was like the fire-music
putting Brunnhilde to sleep. But the pipe did not flicker and sink. It
seemed to cause a natural relaxation in her soul, a peace. Perhaps it
was more like waking to a sweet, morning awakening, after a night of
tormented, painful tense sleep. Perhaps more like that.

When Aaron came in, she looked at him with a gentle, fresh smile that
seemed t