“Don’t take cold,” said Manfredi.

She turned at once indoors.  Aaron caught a faint whiff of perfume from the little orange trees in tubs round the wall.

“Will you get the flute?” she said as they entered.

“And will you sing?” he answered.

“Play first,” she said.

He did as she wished.  As the other night, he went into the big music-room to play.  And the stream of sound came out with the quick wild imperiousness of the pipe.  It had an immediate effect on her.  She seemed to relax the peculiar, drug-like tension which was upon her at all ordinary times.  She seemed to go still, and yielding.  Her red mouth looked as if it might moan with relief.  She sat with her chin dropped on her breast, listening.  And she did not move.  But she sat softly, breathing rather quick, like one who has been hurt, and is soothed.  A certain womanly naturalness seemed to soften her.

And the music of the flute came quick, rather brilliant like a call-note, or like a long quick message, half command.  To her it was like a pure male voice—­as a blackbird’s when he calls:  a pure male voice, not only calling, but telling her something, telling her something, and soothing her soul to sleep.  It was like the fire-music putting Brunnhilde to sleep.  But the pipe did not flicker and sink.  It seemed to cause a natural relaxation in her soul, a peace.  Perhaps it was more like waking to a sweet, morning awakening, after a night of tormented, painful tense sleep.  Perhaps more like that.

When Aaron came in, she looked at him with a gentle, fresh smile that seemed to make the fard on her face look like a curious tiredness, which now she might recover from.  And as the last time, it was difficult for her to identify this man with the voice of the flute.  It was rather difficult.  Except that, perhaps, between his brows was something of a doubt, and in his bearing an aloofness that made her dread he might go away and not come back.  She could see it in him, that he might go away and not come back.

She said nothing to him, only just smiled.  And the look of knowledge in her eyes seemed, for the moment, to be contained in another look:  a look of faith, and at last happiness.  Aaron’s heart stood still.  No, in her moment’s mood of faith and at last peace, life-trust, he was perhaps more terrified of her than in her previous sinister elegance.  His spirit started and shrank.  What was she going to ask of him?

“I am so anxious that you should come to play one Saturday morning,” said Manfredi.  “With an accompaniment, you know.  I should like so much to hear you with piano accompaniment.”

“Very well,” said Aaron.

“Will you really come?  And will you practise with me, so that I can accompany you?” said Manfredi eagerly.

“Yes.  I will,” said Aaron.

“Oh, good!  Oh, good!  Look here, come in on Friday morning and let us both look through the music.”