Aaron sat in the little sitting-room and waited. After a rather long time the Marchesa came in—wearing a white, thin blouse and a blue skirt. She was hardly made up at all. She had an odd pleased, yet brooding look on her face as she gave Aaron her hand. Something brooded between her brows. And her voice was strange, with a strange, secret undertone, that he could not understand. He looked up at her. And his face was bright, and his knees, as he sat, were like the knees of the gods.
“You wanted the book of chansons?” she said.
“I wanted to learn your tunes,” he replied.
“Yes. Look—here it is!” And she brought him the little yellow book. It was just a hand-book, with melody and words only, no accompaniment. So she stood offering him the book, but waiting as if for something else, and standing as if with another meaning.
He opened the leaves at random.
“But I ought to know which ones you sing,” said he, rising and standing by her side with the open book.
“Yes,” she said, looking over his arm. He turned the pages one by one. “Trois jeunes tambours,” said she. “Yes, that.... Yes, En passant par la Lorraine.... Aupres de ma blonde.... Oh, I like that one so much—” He stood and went over the tune in his mind.
“Would you like me to play it?” he said.
“Very much,” said she.
So he got his flute, propped up the book against a vase, and played the tune, whilst she hummed it fragmentarily. But as he played, he felt that he did not cast the spell over her. There was no connection. She was in some mysterious way withstanding him. She was withstanding him, and his male super-power, and his thunderbolt desire. She was, in some indescribable way, throwing cold water over his phoenix newly risen from the ashes of its nest in flames.