He came to the large, brilliantly-lighted cafe.  It was Sunday evening, and the place was full.  Men, Florentines, many, many men sat in groups and in twos and threes at the little marble tables.  They were mostly in dark clothes or black overcoats.  They had mostly been drinking just a cup of coffee—­others however had glasses of wine or liquor.  But mostly it was just a little coffee-tray with a tiny coffee pot and a cup and saucer.  There was a faint film of tobacco smoke.  And the men were all talking:  talking, talking with that peculiar intensity of the Florentines.  Aaron felt the intense, compressed sound of many half-secret voices.  For the little groups and couples abated their voices, none wished that others should hear what they said.

Aaron was looking for a seat—­there was no table to him-—when suddenly someone took him by the arm.  It was Argyle.

“Come along, now!  Come and join us.  Here, this way!  Come along!”

Aaron let himself be led away towards a corner.  There sat Lilly and a strange man:  called Levison.  The room was warm.  Aaron could never bear to be too hot.  After sitting a minute, he rose and took off his coat, and hung it on a stand near the window.  As he did so he felt the weight of his flute—­it was still in his pocket.  And he wondered if it was safe to leave it.

“I suppose no one will steal from the overcoat pockets,” he said, as he sat down.

“My dear chap, they’d steal the gold filling out of your teeth, if you happened to yawn,” said Argyle.  “Why, have you left valuables in your overcoat?”

“My flute,” said Aaron.

“Oh, they won’t steal that,” said Argyle.

“Besides,” said Lilly, “we should see anyone who touched it.”

And so they settled down to the vermouth.

“Well,” said Argyle, “what have you been doing with yourself, eh?  I haven’t seen a glimpse of you for a week.  Been going to the dogs, eh?”

“Or the bitches,” said Aaron.

“Oh, but look here, that’s bad!  That’s bad!  I can see I shall have to take you in hand, and commence my work of reform.  Oh, I’m a great reformer, a Zwingli and Savonarola in one.  I couldn’t count the number of people I’ve led into the right way.  It takes some finding, you know.  Strait is the gate—­damned strait sometimes.  A damned tight squeeze. . . .”  Argyle was somewhat intoxicated.  He spoke with a slight slur, and laughed, really tickled at his own jokes.  The man Levison smiled acquiescent.  But Lilly was not listening.  His brow was heavy and he seemed abstracted.  He hardly noticed Aaron’s arrival.

“Did you see the row yesterday?” asked Levison.

“No,” said Aaron.  “What was it?”