“But do you think I might—?” said Francis moodily. Angus pursed his lips with a reckless brightness.
“Why not? I see no reason why you shouldn't,” he said. Whereupon Francis cleared his throat, disposed of his serviette, and rose to his feet, slowly but gracefully. Then he composed himself, and took on the air he wished to assume at the moment. It was a nice degage air, half naive and half enthusiastic. Then he crossed to Aaron's table, and stood on one lounging hip, gracefully, and bent forward in a confidential manner, and said:
“Do excuse me. But I MUST ask you if it was you we heard playing the flute so perfectly wonderfully, just before dinner.”
The voice was confidential and ingratiating. Aaron, relieved from the world's stress and seeing life anew in the rosy glow of half a litre of good old Chianti—the war was so near but gone by—looked up at the dark blue, ingenuous, well-adapted eyes of our friend Francis, and smiling, said:
“Yes, I saw you on the balcony as well.”
“Oh, did you notice us?” plunged Francis. “But wasn't it an extraordinary affair?”
“Very,” said Aaron. “I couldn't make it out, could you?”
“Oh,” cried Francis. “I never try. It's all much too new and complicated for me.—But perhaps you know Italy?”
“No, I don't,” said Aaron.
“Neither do we. And we feel rather stunned. We had only just arrived—and then—Oh!” Francis put up his hand to his comely brow and rolled his eyes. “I feel perfectly overwhelmed with it still.”