o make the fard on her face look like a curious tiredness, which
now she might recover from. And as the last time, it was difficult for
her to identify this man with the voice of the flute. It was rather
difficult. Except that, perhaps, between his brows was something of a
doubt, and in his bearing an aloofness that made her dread he might go
away and not come back. She could see it in him, that he might go away
and not come back.

She said nothing to him, only just smiled. And the look of knowledge in
her eyes seemed, for the moment, to be contained in another look: a look
of faith, and at last happiness. Aaron's heart stood still. No, in her
moment's mood of faith and at last peace, life-trust, he was perhaps
more terrified of her than in her previous sinister elegance. His spirit
started and shrank. What was she going to ask of him?

"I am so anxious that you should come to play one Saturday morning,"
said Manfredi. "With an accompaniment, you know. I should like so much
to hear you with piano accompaniment."

"Very well," said Aaron.

"Will you really come? And will you practise with me, so that I can
accompany you?" said Manfredi eagerly.

"Yes. I will," said Aaron.

"Oh, good! Oh, good! Look here, come in on Friday morning and let us
both look through the music."

"If Mr. Sisson plays for the public," said the Marchesa, "he must not do
it for charity. He must have the proper fee."

"No, I don't want it," said Aaron.

"But you must earn money, mustn't you?" said she.

"I must," said Aaron. "But I can do it somewhere else."

"No. If you play for the public, you must have your earnings. When you
play for me, it is different."

"Of course," said Manfredi. "Every man must have his wage. I have mine
from the Italian government---"

After a while, Aaron asked the Marchesa if she would sing.

"Shall I?" she said.

"Yes, do."

"Then I will sing alone first, to let you see what you think of it--I
shall be like Trilby--I won't say like Yvette Guilbert, because I
daren't. So I will be like Trilby, and sing a little French song. Though
not Malbrouck, and without a Svengali to keep me in tune."

She went near the door, and stood with heir hands by her side. There was
something wistful, almost pathetic now, in her elegance.

"Derriere chez mon pere
_Vole vole mon coeur, vole_!
Derriere chez mon pere
Il y a un pommier dou