“If Mr. Sisson plays for the public,” said the Marchesa, “he must not do it for charity.  He must have the proper fee.”

“No, I don’t want it,” said Aaron.

“But you must earn money, mustn’t you?” said she.

“I must,” said Aaron.  “But I can do it somewhere else.”

“No.  If you play for the public, you must have your earnings.  When you play for me, it is different.”

“Of course,” said Manfredi.  “Every man must have his wage.  I have mine from the Italian government—–­”

After a while, Aaron asked the Marchesa if she would sing.

“Shall I?” she said.

“Yes, do.”

“Then I will sing alone first, to let you see what you think of it—­ I shall be like Trilby—­I won’t say like Yvette Guilbert, because I daren’t.  So I will be like Trilby, and sing a little French song.  Though not Malbrouck, and without a Svengali to keep me in tune.”

She went near the door, and stood with heir hands by her side.  There was something wistful, almost pathetic now, in her elegance.

“Derriere chez mon pere
Vole vole mon coeur, vole! 
Derriere chez mon pere
Il y a un pommier doux.
Tout doux, et iou
Et iou, tout doux. 
Il y a unpommier doux.

Trois belles princesses
Vole vole mon coeur, vole! 
Trois belles princesses
Sont assis dessous.
Tout doux, et iou
Et iou, tout doux. 
Sont asses dessous.”

She had a beautiful, strong, sweet voice.  But it was faltering, stumbling and sometimes it seemed to drop almost to speech.  After three verses she faltered to an end, bitterly chagrined.

“No,” she said.  “It’s no good.  I can’t sing.”  And she dropped in her chair.

“A lovely little tune,” said Aaron.  “Haven’t you got the music?”

She rose, not answering, and found him a little book.

“What do the words mean?” he asked her.

She told him.  And then he took his flute.

“You don’t mind if I play it, do you?” he said.

So he played the tune.  It was so simple.  And he seemed to catch the lilt and the timbre of her voice.

“Come and sing it while I play—­” he said.

“I can’t sing,” she said, shaking her head rather bitterly.

“But let us try,” said he, disappointed.

“I know I can’t,” she said.  But she rose.

He remained sitting at the little table, the book propped up under the reading lamp.  She stood at a little distance, unhappy.

“I’ve always been like that,” she said.  “I could never sing music, unless I had a thing drilled into me, and then it wasn’t singing any more.”