Angus put in his monocle, and stared at the oblivious shoulders of Aaron, without apparently seeing anything. “Yes. Obviously English,” said Angus, pursing like a bird.
“Oh, but I heard him,” whispered Francis emphatically. “Quite,” said Angus. “But quite inoffensive.”
“Oh, but Angus, my dear—he's the FLAUTIST. Don't you remember? The divine bit of Scriabin. At least I believe it was Scriabin.—But PERFECTLY DIVINE!!! I adore the flute above all things—” And Francis placed his hand on Angus' arm, and rolled his eyes—Lay this to the credit of a bottle of Lacrimae Cristi, if you like.
“Yes. So do I,” said Angus, again looking archly through the monocle, and seeing nothing. “I wonder what he's doing here.”
“Don't you think we might ASK him?” said Francis, in a vehement whisper. “After all, we are the only three English people in the place.”
“For the moment, apparently we are,” said Angus. “But the English are all over the place wherever you go, like bits of orange peel in the street. Don't forget that, Francesco.”
“No, Angus, I don't. The point is, his flute is PERFECTLY DIVINE—and he seems quite attractive in himself. Don't you think so?”
“Oh, quite,” said Angus, whose observations had got no further than the black cloth of the back of Aaron's jacket. That there was a man inside he had not yet paused to consider.
“Quite a musician,” said Francis.
“The hired sort,” said Angus, “most probably.”