ul soft afternoon dress, again of a blue like chicory-flowers,
a pale, warm blue. And she had cornflowers in her belt: heaven knows
where she had got them.

She greeted Aaron with some of the childish shyness. He could tell that
she was glad he had come, and that she had wondered at his not coming
sooner. She introduced him to her visitors: two young ladies and one
old lady and one elderly Italian count. The conversation was mostly in
French or Italian, so Aaron was rather out of it.

However, the visitors left fairly early, so Aaron stayed them out. When
they had gone, he asked:

"Where is Manfredi?"

"He will come in soon. At about seven o'clock."

Then there was a silence again.

"You are dressed fine today," he said to her.

"Am I?" she smiled.

He was never able to make out quite what she felt, what she was feeling.
But she had a quiet little air of proprietorship in him, which he did
not like.

"You will stay to dinner tonight, won't you?" she said.

"No--not tonight," he said. And then, awkwardly, he added: "You know. I
think it is better if we are friends--not lovers. You know--I don't feel
free. I feel my wife, I suppose, somewhere inside me. And I can't help
it---"

She bent her head and was silent for some moments. Then she lifted her
face and looked at him oddly.

"Yes," she said. "I am sure you love your wife."

The reply rather staggered him--and to tell the truth, annoyed him.

"Well," he said. "I don't know about love. But when one has been married
for ten years--and I did love her--then--some sort of bond or something
grows. I think some sort of connection grows between us, you know. And
it isn't natural, quite, to break it.--Do you know what I mean?"

She paused a moment. Then, very softly, almost gently, she said:

"Yes, I do. I know so well what you mean."

He was really surprised at her soft acquiescence. What _did_ she mean?

"But we can be friends, can't we?" he said.

"Yes, I hope so. Why, yes! Goodness, yes! I should be sorry if we
couldn't be friends."

After which speech he felt that everything was all right--everything
was A-one. And when Manfredi came home, the first sound he heard was the
flute and his wife's singing.

"I'm so glad you've come," his wife said to him. "Shall we go into the
sala and have real music? Will you play?"

"I should love to," replied the husband.

Behold them then in the big drawing-room, and Aaron and the Marchese
practising together,