“Would you like to see the room where we have music?” he said.  “It is a fine room for the purpose—­we used before the war to have music every Saturday morning, from ten to twelve:  and all friends might come.  Usually we had fifteen or twenty people.  Now we are starting again.  I myself enjoy it so much.  I am afraid my wife isn’t so enthusiastic as she used to be.  I wish something would rouse her up, you know.  The war seemed to take her life away.  Here in Florence are so many amateurs.  Very good indeed.  We can have very good chamber-music indeed.  I hope it will cheer her up and make her quite herself again.  I was away for such long periods, at the front.—­And it was not good for her to be alone.—­I am hoping now all will be better.”

So saying, the little, odd officer switched on the lights of the long salon.  It was a handsome room in the Italian mode of the Empire period—­beautiful old faded tapestry panels—­reddish—­and some ormolu furniture—­and other things mixed in—­rather conglomerate, but pleasing, all the more pleasing.  It was big, not too empty, and seemed to belong to human life, not to show and shut-upedness.  The host was happy showing it.

“Of course the flat in Paris is more luxurious than this,” he said.  “But I prefer this.  I prefer it here.”  There was a certain wistfulness as he looked round, then began to switch off the lights.

They returned to the little salotta.  The Marchesa was seated in a low chair.  She wore a very thin white blouse, that showed her arms and her throat.  She was a full-breasted, soft-skinned woman, though not stout.

“Make the cocktails then, Manfredi,” she said.  “Do you find this room very cold?” she asked of Aaron.

“Not a bit cold,” he said.

“The stove goes all the time,” she said, “but without much effect.”

“You wear such thin clothes,” he said.

“Ah, no, the stove should give heat enough.  Do sit down.  Will you smoke?  There are cigarettes—­and cigars, if you prefer them.”

“No, I’ve got my own, thanks.”

She took her own cigarette from her gold case.

“It is a fine room, for music, the big room,” said he.

“Yes, quite.  Would you like to play for us some time, do you think?”

“Do you want me to?  I mean does it interest you?”

“What—­the flute?”

“No—­music altogether—­”

“Music altogether—!  Well!  I used to love it.  Now—­I’m not sure. 
Manfredi lives for it, almost.”

“For that and nothing else?” asked Aaron.

“No, no!  No, no!  Other things as well.”

“But you don’t like it much any more?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps I don’t.  I’m not sure.”

“You don’t look forward to the Saturday mornings?” he asked.

“Perhaps I don’t—­but for Manfredi’s sake, of course, I do.  But for his sake more than my own, I admit.  And I think he knows it.”