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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 330 pages of information about Aaron's Rod.

It was growing quite dark as they drove to the hotel, but still was light enough to show the river rustling, the Ponte Vecchio spanning its little storeys across the flood, on its low, heavy piers:  and some sort of magic of the darkening, varied houses facing, on the other side of the stream.  Of course they were all enchanted.

“I knew,” said Francis, “we should love it.”

Aaron was told he could have a little back room and pension terms for fifteen lire a day, if he stayed at least fifteen days.  The exchange was then at forty-five.  So fifteen lire meant just six-shillings-and-six pence a day, without extras.  Extras meant wine, tea, butter, and light.  It was decided he should look for something cheaper next day.

By the tone of the young men, he now gathered that they would prefer it if he took himself off to a cheaper place.  They wished to be on their own.

“Well, then,” said Francis, “you will be in to lunch here, won’t you?  Then we’ll see you at lunch.”

It was as if both the young men had drawn in their feelers now.  They were afraid of finding the new man an incubus.  They wanted to wash their hands of him.  Aaron’s brow darkened.

“Perhaps it was right your love to dissemble
But why did you kick me down stairs? . . .”

Then morning found him out early, before his friends had arisen.  It was sunny again.  The magic of Florence at once overcame him, and he forgot the bore of limited means and hotel costs.  He went straight out of the hotel door, across the road, and leaned on the river parapet.  There ran the Arno:  not such a flood after all, but a green stream with shoals of pebbles in its course.  Across, and in the delicate shadow of the early sun, stood the opposite Lungarno, the old flat houses, pink, or white, or grey stone, with their green shutters, some closed, some opened.  It had a flowery effect, the skyline irregular against the morning light.  To the right the delicate Trinita bridge, to the left, the old bridge with its little shops over the river.  Beyond, towards the sun, glimpses of green, sky-bloomed country:  Tuscany.

There was a noise and clatter of traffic:  boys pushing hand-barrows over the cobble-stones, slow bullocks stepping side by side, and shouldering one another affectionately, drawing a load of country produce, then horses in great brilliant scarlet cloths, like vivid palls, slowly pulling the long narrow carts of the district:  and men hu-huing!—­and people calling:  all the sharp, clattering morning noise of Florence.

“Oh, Angus!  Do come and look!  OH, so lovely!”

Glancing up, he saw the elegant figure of Francis, in fine coloured-silk pyjamas, perched on a small upper balcony, turning away from the river towards the bedroom again, his hand lifted to his lips, as if to catch there his cry of delight.  The whole pose was classic and effective:  and very amusing.  How the Italians would love it!

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