“Yes, quite deliberately—­” She threw away her cigarette and opened her little gold case to take another.

“But what can have brought you to such a disastrous decision?”

“I can’t say,” she replied, with a little laugh.  “The war, probably.”

“Oh, but don’t let the war deprive us of this, as of everything else.”

“Can’t be helped,” she said.  “I have no choice in the matter.  The bird has flown—­” She spoke with a certain heavy languor.

“You mean the bird of your voice?  Oh, but that is quite impossible.  One can hear it calling out of the leaves every time you speak.”

“I’m afraid you can’t get him to do any more than call out of the leaves.”

“But—­but—­pardon me—­is it because you don’t intend there should be any more song?  Is that your intention?”

“That I couldn’t say,” said the Marchesa, smoking, smoking.

“Yes,” said Manfredi.  “At the present time it is because she WILL not—­not because she cannot.  It is her will, as you say.”

“Dear me!  Dear me!” said Algy.  “But this is really another disaster added to the war list.—­But—­but—­will none of us ever be able to persuade you?” He smiled half cajoling, half pathetic, with a prodigious flapping of his eyes.

“I don’t know,” said she.  “That will be as it must be.”

“Then can’t we say it must be SONG once more?”

To this sally she merely laughed, and pressed out her half-smoked cigarette.

“How very disappointing!  How very cruel of—­of fate—­and the war—­ and—­and all the sum total of evils,” said Algy.

“Perhaps—­” here the little and piquant host turned to Aaron.

“Perhaps Mr. Sisson, your flute might call out the bird of song.  As thrushes call each other into challenge, you know.  Don’t you think that is very probable?”

“I have no idea,” said Aaron.

“But you, Marchesa.  Won’t you give us hope that it might be so?”

“I’ve no idea, either,” said she.  “But I should very much like to hear Mr. Sisson’s flute.  It’s an instrument I like extremely.”

“There now.  You see you may work the miracle, Mr. Sisson.  Won’t you play to us?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring my flute along,” said Aaron “I didn’t want to arrive with a little bag.”

“Quite!” said Algy.  “What a pity it wouldn’t go in your pocket.”

“Not music and all,” said Aaron.

“Dear me!  What a comble of disappointment.  I never felt so strongly, Marchesa, that the old life and the old world had collapsed.  —­Really—­I shall soon have to try to give up being cheerful at all.”

“Don’t do that,” said the Marchesa.  “It isn’t worth the effort.”

“Ah!  I’m glad you find it so.  Then I have hope.”

She merely smiled, indifferent.

The teaparty began to break up—­Aaron found himself going down the stairs with the Marchesa and her husband.  They descended all three in silence, husband and wife in front.  Once outside the door, the husband asked: