“The bottom of the bottle! Then I start with the tail–end, yes!” He stretched his blue eyes so that the whites showed all round, and grinned a wide, gnome–like grin.

“You made that start long ago, my dear fellow. Don’t play the ingenue with me, you know it won’t work. Say when, my man, say when!”

“Yes, when,” said Del Torre. “When did I make that start, then?”

“At some unmentionably young age. Chickens such as you soon learn to cheep.”

“Chickens such as I soon learn to cheap,” repeated Del Torre, pleased with the verbal play. “What is cheap, please? What is TO CHEAP?”

“Cheep! Cheep!” squeaked Argyle, making a face at the little Italian, who was perched on one strap of the luggage–stool. “It’s what chickens say when they’re poking their little noses into new adventures—naughty ones.”

“Are chickens naughty? Oh! I thought they could only be good!”

“Featherless chickens like yourself, my boy.”

“Oh, as for featherless—then there is no saying what they will do.—” And here the Marchese turned away from Argyle with the inevitable question to Lilly:

“Well, and how long will you stay in Florence?”

Lilly did not know: but he was not leaving immediately.

“Good! Then you will come and see us at once. . . .”

Argyle rose once more, and went to make the tea. He shoved a lump of cake—or rather panetone, good currant loaf—through the window, with a knife to cut it.

“Help yourselves to the panetone,” he said. “Eat it up. The tea is coming at once. You’ll have to drink it in your glasses, there’s only one old cup.”

The Marchese cut the cake, and offered pieces. The two men took and ate.

“So you have already found Mr. Sisson!” said Del Torre to Lilly.

“Ran straight into him in the Via Nazionale,” said Lilly.

“Oh, one always runs into everybody in Florence. We are all already acquainted: also with the flute. That is a great pleasure.”

“So I think.—Does your wife like it, too?”

“Very much, indeed! She is quite eprise. I, too, shall have to learn to play it.”

“And run the risk of spoiling the shape of your mouth—like Alcibiades.”

“Is there a risk? Yes! Then I shan’t play it. My mouth is too beautiful.—But Mr. Sisson has not spoilt his mouth.”

“Not yet,” said Lilly. “Give him time.”

“Is he also afraid—like Alcibiades?”

“Are you, Aaron?” said Lilly.

“What?”

“Afraid of spoiling your beauty by screwing your mouth to the flute?”

“I look a fool, do I, when I’m playing?” said Aaron.

“Only the least little bit in the world,” said Lilly. “The way you prance your head, you know, like a horse.”