Behold them then in the big drawing-room, and Aaron and the Marchese practising together, and the Marchesa singing an Italian folk-song while her husband accompanied her on the pianoforte.  But her singing was rather strained and forced.  Still, they were quite a little family, and it seemed quite nice.  As soon as she could, the Marchesa left the two men together, whilst she sat apart.  Aaron and Manfredi went through old Italian and old German music, tried one thing and then another, and seemed quite like brothers.  They arranged a piece which they should play together on a Saturday morning, eight days hence.

The next day, Saturday, Aaron went to one of the Del Torre music mornings.  There was a string quartette—­and a violin soloist—­and the Marchese at the piano.  The audience, some dozen or fourteen friends, sat at the near end of the room, or in the smaller salotta, whilst the musicians performed at the further end of the room.  The Lillys were there, both Tanny and her husband.  But apart from these, Aaron knew nobody, and felt uncomfortable.  The Marchesa gave her guests little sandwiches and glasses of wine or Marsala or vermouth, as they chose.  And she was quite the hostess:  the well-bred and very simple, but still the conventional hostess.  Aaron did not like it.  And he could see that Lilly too was unhappy.  In fact, the little man bolted the moment he could, dragging after him the indignant Tanny, who was so looking forward to the excellent little sandwiches.  But no—­Lilly just rudely bolted.  Aaron followed as soon as he could.

“Will you come to dinner tomorrow evening?” said his hostess to him as he was leaving.  And he agreed.  He had really resented seeing her as a conventional hostess, attending so charmingly to all the other people, and treating him so merely as one of the guests, among many others.  So that when at the last moment she quietly invited him to dinner next day, he was flattered and accepted at once.

The next day was Sunday—­the seventh day after his coming together with the Marchesa—­which had taken place on the Monday.  And already he was feeling much less dramatic in his decision to keep himself apart from her, to be merely friends.  Already the memory of the last time was fanning up in him, not as a warning but as a terrible incitement.  Again the naked desire was getting hold of him, with that peculiar brutal powerfulness which startled him and also pleased him.

So that by the time Sunday morning came, his recoil had exhausted itself, and he was ready again, eager again, but more wary this time.  He sat in his room alone in the morning, playing his flute, playing over from memory the tunes she loved, and imagining how he and she would get into unison in the evening.  His flute, his Aaron’s rod, would blossom once again with splendid scarlet flowers, the red Florentine lilies.  It was curious, the passion he had for her:  just unalloyed desire, and nothing else.