“Yes.  So do I,” said Angus, again looking archly through the monocle, and seeing nothing.  “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Don’t you think we might ASK him?” said Francis, in a vehement whisper.  “After all, we are the only three English people in the place.”

“For the moment, apparently we are,” said Angus.  “But the English are all over the place wherever you go, like bits of orange peel in the street.  Don’t forget that, Francesco.”

“No, Angus, I don’t.  The point is, his flute is PERFECTLY DIVINE—­and he seems quite attractive in himself.  Don’t you think so?”

“Oh, quite,” said Angus, whose observations had got no further than the black cloth of the back of Aaron’s jacket.  That there was a man inside he had not yet paused to consider.

“Quite a musician,” said Francis.

“The hired sort,” said Angus, “most probably.”

“But he PLAYS—­he plays most marvellously.  THAT you can’t get away from, Angus.”

“I quite agree,” said Angus.

“Well, then?  Don’t you think we might hear him again?  Don’t you think we might get him to play for us?—­But I should love it more than anything.”

“Yes, I should, too,” said Angus.  “You might ask him to coffee and a liqueur.”

“I should like to—­most awfully.  But do you think I might?”

“Oh, yes.  He won’t mind being offered a coffee and liqueur.  We can give him something decent—­Where’s the waiter?” Angus lifted his pinched, ugly bare face and looked round with weird command for the waiter.  The waiter, having not much to do, and feeling ready to draw these two weird young birds, allowed himself to be summoned.

“Where’s the wine list?  What liqueurs have you got?” demanded Angus abruptly.

The waiter rattled off a list, beginning with Strega and ending with cherry brandy.

“Grand Marnier,” said Angus.  “And leave the bottle.”

Then he looked with arch triumph at Francis, like a wicked bird.  Francis bit his finger moodily, and glowered with handsome, dark-blue uncertain eyes at Mr. Aaron, who was just surveying the Frutte, which consisted of two rather old pomegranates and various pale yellow apples, with a sprinkling of withered dried figs.  At the moment, they all looked like a Natura Morta arrangement.

“But do you think I might—?” said Francis moodily.  Angus pursed his lips with a reckless brightness.

“Why not?  I see no reason why you shouldn’t,” he said.  Whereupon Francis cleared his throat, disposed of his serviette, and rose to his feet, slowly but gracefully.  Then he composed himself, and took on the air he wished to assume at the moment.  It was a nice degage air, half naive and half enthusiastic.  Then he crossed to Aaron’s table, and stood on one lounging hip, gracefully, and bent forward in a confidential manner, and said: 

“Do excuse me.  But I MUST ask you if it was you we heard playing the flute so perfectly wonderfully, just before dinner.”