“I'm afraid you can't get him to do any more than call out of the leaves.”
“But—but—pardon me—is it because you don't intend there should be any more song? Is that your intention?”
“That I couldn't say,” said the Marchesa, smoking, smoking.
“Yes,” said Manfredi. “At the present time it is because she WILL not—not because she cannot. It is her will, as you say.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” said Algy. “But this is really another disaster added to the war list.—But—but—will none of us ever be able to persuade you?” He smiled half cajoling, half pathetic, with a prodigious flapping of his eyes.
“I don't know,” said she. “That will be as it must be.”
“Then can't we say it must be SONG once more?”
To this sally she merely laughed, and pressed out her half-smoked cigarette.
“How very disappointing! How very cruel of—of fate—and the war—and—and all the sum total of evils,” said Algy.
“Perhaps—” here the little and piquant host turned to Aaron.