Aaron looked round, dazed.  And then for the first time he noticed, on the next balcony to his own, two young men:  young gentlemen, he would have said.  The one was tall and handsome and well-coloured, might be Italian.  But the other with his pale thin face and his rimless monocle in his eye, he was surely an Englishman.  He was surely one of the young officers shattered by the war.  A look of strange, arch, bird-like pleasure was on his face at this moment:  if one could imagine the gleaming smile of a white owl over the events that had just passed, this was the impression produced on Aaron by the face of the young man with the monocle.  The other youth, the ruddy, handsome one, had knitted his brows in mock distress, and was glancing with a look of shrewd curiosity at Aaron, and with a look of almost self-satisfied excitement first to one end of the street, then to the other.

“But imagine, Angus, it’s all over!” he said, laying his hand on the arm of the monocled young man, and making great eyes—­not without a shrewd glance in Aaron’s direction.

“Did you see him fall!” replied Angus, with another strange gleam.

“Yes.  But was he HURT—?”

“I don’t know.  I should think so.  He fell right back out of that on to those stones!”

“But how perfectly AWFUL!  Did you ever see anything like it?”

“No.  It’s one of the funniest things I ever did see.  I saw nothing quite like it, even in the war—­”

Here Aaron withdrew into his room.  His mind and soul were in a whirl.  He sat down in his chair, and did not move again for a great while.  When he did move, he took his flute and played he knew not what.  But strange, strange his soul passed into his instrument.  Or passed half into his instrument.  There was a big residue left, to go bitter, or to ferment into gold old wine of wisdom.

He did not notice the dinner gong, and only the arrival of the chamber-maid, to put the wash-table in order, sent him down to the restaurant.  The first thing he saw, as he entered, was the two young Englishmen seated at a table in a corner just behind him.  Their hair was brushed straight back from their foreheads, making the sweep of the head bright and impeccable, and leaving both the young faces clear as if in cameo.  Angus had laid his monocle on the table, and was looking round the room with wide, light-blue eyes, looking hard, like some bird-creature, and seeming to see nothing.  He had evidently been very ill:  was still very ill.  His cheeks and even his jaw seemed shrunken, almost withered.  He forgot his dinner:  or he did not care for it.  Probably the latter.

“What do you think, Francis,” he said, “of making a plan to see Florence and Sienna and Orvieto on the way down, instead of going straight to Rome?” He spoke in precise, particularly-enunciated words, in a public-school manner, but with a strong twang of South Wales.

“Why, Angus,” came the graceful voice of Francis, “I thought we had settled to go straight through via Pisa.”  Francis was graceful in everything—­in his tall, elegant figure, in the poses of his handsome head, in the modulation of his voice.