“Why, how do you mean, what sort? We are dilettanti, I suppose.”
“No—what is your instrument? The piano?”
“Yes—the pianoforte. And my wife sings. But we are very much out of practice. I have been at the war four years, and we have had our home in Paris. My wife was in Paris, she did not wish to stay in Italy alone. And so—you see—everything goes—”
“But you will begin again?”
“Yes. We have begun already. We have music on Saturday mornings. Next Saturday a string quartette, and violin solos by a young Florentine woman—a friend—very good indeed, daughter of our Professor Tortoli, who composes—as you may know—”
“Yes,” said Aaron.
“Would you care to come and hear—?”
“Awfully nice if you would—” suddenly said the wife, quite simply, as if she had merely been tired, and not talking before.
“I should like to very much—”
“Do come then.”