he green hill up to
San Miniato. He watched the tuft of palm-trees, and the terrace beside
it. He could just distinguish the terrace clearly, among the green of
foliage. So he stood at his window for a full hour, and did not move.
Motionless, planted, he stood and watched that terrace across above the
Arno. But like a statue.

After an hour or so, he looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. So he
rang for his coffee, and meanwhile still stood watching the terrace
on the hill. He felt his turn had come. The phoenix had risen in fire
again, out of the ashes.

Therefore at ten o'clock he went over the bridge. He wrote on the back
of his card a request, would she please let him have the little book of
songs, that he might practise them over. The manservant went, and came
back with the request that Aaron should wait. So Aaron entered, while
the man took his hat.

The manservant spoke only French and Spanish, no English. He was
a Spaniard, with greyish hair and stooping shoulders, and dark,
mute-seeming eyes. He spoke as little as possible. The Marchesa had
inherited him from her father.

Aaron sat in the little sitting-room and waited. After a rather long
time the Marchesa came in--wearing a white, thin blouse and a blue
skirt. She was hardly made up at all. She had an odd pleased, yet
brooding look on her face as she gave Aaron her hand. Something brooded
between her brows. And her voice was strange, with a strange, secret
undertone, that he could not understand. He looked up at her. And his
face was bright, and his knees, as he sat, were like the knees of the
gods.

"You wanted the book of _chansons_?" she said.

"I wanted to learn your tunes," he replied.

"Yes. Look--here it is!" And she brought him the little yellow book. It
was just a hand-book, with melody and words only, no accompaniment. So
she stood offering him the book, but waiting as if for something else,
and standing as if with another meaning.

He opened the leaves at random.

"But I ought to know which ones you sing," said he, rising and standing
by her side with the open book.

"Yes," she said, looking over his arm. He turned the pages one by one.
"_Trois jeunes tambours_," said she. "Yes, that.... Yes, _En passant
par la Lorraine_.... _Aupres de ma blonde_.... Oh, I like that one so
much--" He stood and went over the tune in his mind.

"Would you like me to play it?" he said.

"Very much," said she.

So he got his flute, propped up the b