their money be otherwise?  It wouldn’t last long if I laid hands on it—­” he made a devilish quizzing face.  “But you know, they get on my nerves.  Little old maids, you know, little old maids.  I’m sure I’m surprised at their patience with me.—­ But when people are patient with you, you want to spit gall at them.  Don’t you?  Ha-ha-ha!  Poor old Algy.—­Did I lay it on him tonight, or did I miss him?”

“I think you got him,” said Aaron.

“He’ll never forgive me.  Depend on it, he’ll never forgive me.  Ha-ha!  I like to be unforgiven.  It adds ZEST to one’s intercourse with people, to know that they’ll never forgive one.  Ha-ha-ha!  Little old maids, who do their knitting with their tongues.  Poor old Algy—­he drops his stitches now.  Ha-ha-ha!—­Must be eighty, I should say.”

Aaron laughed.  He had never met a man like Argyle before—­and he could not help being charmed.  The other man had a certain wicked whimsicality that was very attractive, when levelled against someone else, and not against oneself.  He must have been very handsome in his day, with his natural dignity, and his clean-shaven strong square face.  But now his face was all red and softened and inflamed, his eyes had gone small and wicked under his bushy grey brows.  Still he had a presence.  And his grey hair, almost gone white, was still handsome.

“And what are you going to do in Florence?” asked Argyle.

Aaron explained.

“Well,” said Argyle.  “Make what you can out of them, and then go.  Go before they have time to do the dirty on you.  If they think you want anything from them, they’ll treat you like a dog, like a dog.  Oh, they’re very frightened of anybody who wants anything of them:  frightened to death.  I see nothing of them.—­Live by myself—­see nobody.  Can’t stand it, you know:  their silly little teaparties—­ simply can’t stand it.  No, I live alone—­and shall die alone.—­At least, I sincerely hope so.  I should be sorry to have any of them hanging round.”

The restaurant was empty, the pale, malarial waiter—­he had of course contracted malaria during the war—­was looking purple round the eyes.  But Argyle callously sat on.  Aaron therefore rose to his feet.

“Oh, I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Argyle.

He got unsteadily to his feet.  The waiter helped him on with his coat:  and he put a disreputable-looking little curly hat on his head.  Then he took his stick.

“Don’t look at my appearance, my dear fellow,” said Argyle.  “I am frayed at the wrists—­look here!” He showed the cuffs of his overcoat, just frayed through.  “I’ve got a trunkful of clothes in London, if only somebody would bring it out to me.—­Ready then! Avanti!”

And so they passed out into the still rainy street.  Argyle lived in the very centre of the town:  in the Cathedral Square.  Aaron left him at his hotel door.

“But come and see me,” said Argyle.  “Call for me at twelve o’clock—­ or just before twelve—­and let us have luncheon together.  What!  Is that all right?—­Yes, come just before twelve.—­When?—­Tomorrow?  Tomorrow morning?  Will you come tomorrow?”