Aaron’s hand gripped his arm.  So, orientating once more like a fragile tendril, he reached again for the banister rail, and got it.  After which, lifting his feet as if they were little packets of sand tied to his trouser buttons, he manipulated his way upwards.  Aaron was in that pleasant state when he saw what everybody else was doing and was unconscious of what he did himself.  Whilst tall, gaunt, erect, like a murdered Hamlet resurrected in khaki, with the terrible black shutter over his eye, the young Major came last.

Arthur was making a stern fight for his composure.  His whole future depended on it.  But do what he would, he could not get the flushed, pleased, mess-happy look off his face.  The Colonel, oh, awful man, did a sort of plump roly-poly-cake-walk, like a fat boy, right to the very door of that santum-sanctorum, the library.  Aaron was inwardly convulsed.  Even the Major laughed.

But Arthur stiffened himself militarily and cleared his throat.  All four started to compose themselves, like actors going on the stage, outside that library door.  And then Arthur softly, almost wistfully, opened and held the door for the others to pass.  The Colonel slunk meekly in, and sat in a chair in the background.  The Major stalked in expressionless, and hovered towards the sofa where his wife sat.

There was a rather cold-water-down-your-back feeling in the library.  The ladies had been waiting for coffee.  Sir William was waiting, too.  Therefore in a little tension, half silent, the coffee was handed round.  Lady Franks was discussing something with Arthur’s wife.  Arthur’s wife was in a cream lace dress, and looking what is called lovely.  The Major’s wife was in amethyst chiffon with dark-red roses, and was looking blindingly beautiful.  The Colonel was looking into his coffee-cup as wistfully as if it contained the illusion of tawny port.  The Major was looking into space, as if there and there alone, etc.  Arthur was looking for something which Lady Franks had asked for, and which he was much too flushed to find.  Sir William was looking at Aaron, and preparing for another coeur a coeur.

“Well,” he said, “I doubt if you will care for Milan.  It is one of the least Italian of all the towns, in my opinion.  Venice, of course, is a thing apart.  I cannot stand, myself, that miserable specimen the modern Roman.  He has most of the vices of the old Romans and none of the virtues.  The most congenial town, perhaps, for a stranger, is Florence.  But it has a very bad climate.”

Lady Franks rose significantly and left the room, accompanied by Arthur’s wife.  Aaron knew, silently, that he was summoned to follow.  His hostess had her eye on him this evening.  But always postponing his obedience to the cool commands of women, he remained talking with his host in the library, and sipping creme de menthe!  Came the ripple of the pianoforte from the open doorway