“Well,” he said. “I don't know about love. But when one has been married for ten years—and I did love her—then—some sort of bond or something grows. I think some sort of connection grows between us, you know. And it isn't natural, quite, to break it.—Do you know what I mean?”
She paused a moment. Then, very softly, almost gently, she said:
“Yes, I do. I know so well what you mean.”
He was really surprised at her soft acquiescence. What did she mean?
“But we can be friends, can't we?” he said.
“Yes, I hope so. Why, yes! Goodness, yes! I should be sorry if we couldn't be friends.”
After which speech he felt that everything was all right—everything was A-one. And when Manfredi came home, the first sound he heard was the flute and his wife's singing.
“I'm so glad you've come,” his wife said to him. “Shall we go into the sala and have real music? Will you play?”
“I should love to,” replied the husband.
Behold them then in the big drawing-room, and Aaron and the Marchese practising together, and the Marchesa singing an Italian folk-song while her husband accompanied her on the pianoforte. But her singing was rather strained and forced. Still, they were quite a little family, and it seemed quite nice. As soon as she could, the Marchesa left the two men together, whilst she sat apart. Aaron and Manfredi went through old Italian and old German music, tried one thing and then another, and seemed quite like brothers. They arranged a piece which they should play together on a Saturday morning, eight days hence.