“Yes, but I see we can go either way—­either Pisa or Florence.  And I thought it might be nice to look at Florence and Sienna and Orvieto.  I believe they’re very lovely,” came the soft, precise voice of Angus, ending in a touch of odd emotion on the words “very lovely,” as if it were a new experience to him to be using them.

“I’m SURE they’re marvellous.  I’m quite sure they’re marvellously beautiful,” said Francis, in his assured, elegant way.  “Well, then, Angus—­suppose we do that, then?—­When shall we start?”

Angus was the nervous insister.  Francis was quite occupied with his own thoughts and calculations and curiosity.  For he was very curious, not to say inquisitive.  And at the present moment he had a new subject to ponder.

This new subject was Aaron, who sat with his back to our new couple, and who, with his fine sharp ears, caught every word that they said.  Aaron’s back was broad enough, and his shoulders square, and his head rather small and fairish and well-shaped—­and Francis was intrigued.  He wanted to know, was the man English.  He looked so English—­ yet he might be—­he might perhaps be Danish, Scandinavian, or Dutch.  Therefore, the elegant young man watched and listened with all his ears.

The waiter who had brought Aaron his soup now came very free and easy, to ask for further orders.

“What would you like to drink?  Wine?  Chianti?  Or white wine?  Or beer?”—­The old-fashioned “Sir” was dropped.  It is too old-fashioned now, since the war.

“What SHOULD I drink?” said Aaron, whose acquaintance with wines was not very large.

“Half-litre of Chianti:  that is very good,” said the waiter, with the air of a man who knew only too well how to bring up his betters, and train them in the way they should go.

“All right,” said Aaron.

The welcome sound of these two magic words, All Right! was what the waiter most desired.  “All right!  Yes!  All Right!” This is the pith, the marrow, the sum and essence of the English language to a southerner.  Of course it is not all right.  It is Or-rye—­and one word at that.  The blow that would be given to most foreign waiters, if they were forced to realize that the famous orye was really composed of two words, and spelt all right, would be too cruel, perhaps.

“Half litre Chianti.  Orye,” said the waiter.  And we’ll let him say it.

“ENGLISH!” whispered Francis melodramatically in the ear of Angus.  “I THOUGHT so.  The flautist.”

Angus put in his monocle, and stared at the oblivious shoulders of Aaron, without apparently seeing anything.  “Yes.  Obviously English,” said Angus, pursing like a bird.

“Oh, but I heard him,” whispered Francis emphatically.  “Quite,” said Angus.  “But quite inoffensive.”

“Oh, but Angus, my dear—­he’s the FLAUTIST. Don’t you remember?  The divine bit of Scriabin.  At least I believe it was Scriabin.—­ But PERFECTLY DIVINE!!!  I adore the flute above all things—­” And Francis placed his hand on Angus’ arm, and rolled his eyes—­Lay this to the credit of a bottle of Lacrimae Cristi, if you like.