Aaron said he would on Monday.

“Monday, eh!  You say Monday!  Very well then.  Don’t you forget now.  Don’t you forget.  For I’ve a memory like a vice. I shan’t forget.—­ Just before twelve then.  And come right up.  I’m right under the roof.  In Paradise, as the porter always says. Siamo nel paradiso.  But he’s a cretin.  As near Paradise as I care for, for it’s devilish hot in summer, and damned cold in winter.  Don’t you forget now—­Monday, twelve o’clock.”

And Argyle pinched Aaron’s arm fast, then went unsteadily up the steps to his hotel door.

The next day at Algy’s there was a crowd Algy had a very pleasant flat indeed, kept more scrupulously neat and finicking than ever any woman’s flat was kept.  So today, with its bowls of flowers and its pictures and books and old furniture, and Algy, very nicely dressed, fluttering and blinking and making really a charming host, it was all very delightful to the little mob of visitors.  They were a curious lot, it is true:  everybody rather exceptional.  Which though it may be startling, is so very much better fun than everybody all alike.  Aaron talked to an old, old Italian elegant in side-curls, who peeled off his grey gloves and studied his formalities with a delightful Mid-Victorian dash, and told stories about a plaint which Lady Surry had against Lord Marsh, and was quite incomprehensible.  Out rolled the English words, like plums out of a burst bag, and all completely unintelligible.  But the old beau was supremely satisfied.  He loved talking English, and holding his listeners spell-bound.

Next to Aaron on the sofa sat the Marchesa del Torre, an American woman from the Southern States, who had lived most of her life in Europe.  She was about forty years of age, handsome, well-dressed, and quiet in the buzz of the tea-party.  It was evident she was one of Algy’s lionesses.  Now she sat by Aaron, eating nothing, but taking a cup of tea and keeping still.  She seemed sad—­or not well perhaps.  Her eyes were heavy.  But she was very carefully made up, and very well dressed, though simply:  and sitting there, full-bosomed, rather sad, remote-seeming, she suggested to Aaron a modern Cleopatra brooding, Anthony-less.

Her husband, the Marchese, was a little intense Italian in a colonel’s grey uniform, cavalry, leather gaiters.  He had blue eyes, his hair was cut very short, his head looked hard and rather military:  he would have been taken for an Austrian officer, or even a German, had it not been for the, peculiar Italian sprightliness and touch of grimace in his mobile countenance.  He was rather like a gnome—­not ugly, but odd.

Now he came and stood opposite to Signor di Lanti, and quizzed him in Italian.  But it was evident, in quizzing the old buck, the little Marchese was hovering near his wife, in ear-shot.  Algy came up with cigarettes, and she at once began to smoke, with that peculiar heavy intensity of a nervous woman.