“Thank you, Sir,” said the well–nourished young man in nice evening clothes. “You’ll take another glass yourself, Sir?”

“Yes, I will, I will. I will drink a glass with Mr. Sisson. Major, where are you wandering off to? Come and take a glass with us, my boy.”

“Thanks, Sir William,” drawled the young major with the black patch.

“Now, Colonel—I hope you are in good health and spirits.”

“Never better, Sir William, never better.”

“I’m very glad to hear it; very glad indeed. Try my Marsala—I think it is quite good. Port is beyond us for the moment—for the moment—”

And the old man sipped his brown wine, and smiled again. He made quite a handsome picture: but he was frail.

“And where are you bound, Mr. Sisson? Towards Rome?”

“I came to meet Lilly,” said Aaron.

“Ah! But Lilly has fled over the borders by this time. Never was such a man for crossing frontiers. Wonderful person, to be able to do it.”

“Where has he gone?” said Aaron.

“I think to Geneva for the moment. But he certainly talked of Venice. You yourself have no definite goal?”

“No.”

“Ah! You have not come to Italy to practice your art?”

“I shall HAVE to practice it: or else—no, I haven’t come for that.”

“Ah, you will HAVE to practice it. Ah, yes! We are all under the necessity to eat. And you have a family in England? Am I not right?”

“Quite. I’ve got a family depending on me.”

“Yes, then you must practice your art: you must practice your art. Well—shall we join the ladies? Coffee will no doubt be served.”

“Will you take my arm, Sir?” said the well–nourished Arthur.

“Thank you, thank you,” the old man motioned him away.

So they went upstairs to where the three women were sitting in the library round the fire, chattering not very interested. The entry of Sir William at once made a stir.

The girl in white, with the biggish nose, fluttered round him. She was Arthur’s wife. The girl in soft blue spread herself on the couch: she was the young Major’s wife, and she had a blue band round her hair. The Colonel hovered stout and fidgetty round Lady Franks and the liqueur stand. He and the Major were both in khaki—belonging to the service on duty in Italy still.

Coffee appeared—and Sir William doled out creme de menthe. There was no conversation—only tedious words. The little party was just commonplace and dull—boring. Yet Sir William, the self–made man, was a study. And the young, Oxford–like Major, with his English diffidence and his one dark, pensive, baffled eye was only waiting to be earnest, poor devil.

The girl in white had been a sort of companion to Lady Franks, so that Arthur was more or less a son–in–law. In this capacity, he acted. Aaron strayed round uneasily looking at the books, bought but not read, and at the big pictures above. It was Arthur who fetched out the little boxes containing the orders conferred on Sir William for his war–work: and perhaps more, for the many thousands of pounds he had spent on his war–work.