It was the socialists.  They were making a demonstration against the imprisonment of one of the railway-strikers.  I was there.  They went on all right, with a good bit of howling and gibing:  a lot of young louts, you know.  And the shop-keepers shut up shop, and nobody showed the Italian flag, of course.  Well, when they came to the Via Benedetto Croce, there were a few mounted carabinieri.  So they stopped the procession, and the sergeant said that the crowd could continue, could go on where they liked, but would they not go down the Via Verrocchio, because it was being repaired, the roadway was all up, and there were piles of cobble stones.  These might prove a temptation and lead to trouble.  So would the demonstrators not take that road—­they might take any other they liked.—­Well, the very moment he had finished, there was a revolver shot, he made a noise, and fell forward over his horse’s nose.  One of the anarchists had shot him.  Then there was hell let loose, the carabinieri fired back, and people were bolting and fighting like devils.  I cleared out, myself.  But my God—­what do you think of it?”

“Seems pretty mean,” said Aaron.

“Mean!—­He had just spoken them fair—­they could go where they liked, only would they not go down the one road, because of the heap of stones.  And they let him finish.  And then shot him dead.”

“Was he dead?” said Aaron.

“Yes—­killed outright, the Nazione says.”

There was a silence.  The drinkers in the cafe all continued to talk vehemently, casting uneasy glances.

“Well,” said Argyle, “if you let loose the dogs of war, you mustn’t expect them to come to heel again in five minutes.”

“But there’s no fair play about it, not a bit,” said Levison.

“Ah, my dear fellow, are you still so young and callow that you cherish the illusion of fair play?” said Argyle.

“Yes, I am,” said Levison.

“Live longer and grow wiser,” said Argyle, rather contemptuously.

“Are you a socialist?” asked Levison.

“Am I my aunt Tabitha’s dachshund bitch called Bella,” said Argyle, in his musical, indifferent voice.  “Yes, Bella’s her name.  And if you can tell me a damneder name for a dog, I shall listen, I assure you, attentively.”

“But you haven’t got an aunt called Tabitha,” said Aaron.

“Haven’t I?  Oh, haven’t I?  I’ve got TWO aunts called Tabitha:  if not more.”

“They aren’t of any vital importance to you, are they?” said Levison.

“Not the very least in the world—­if it hadn’t been that my elder Aunt Tabitha had christened her dachshund bitch Bella.  I cut myself off from the family after that.  Oh, I turned over a new leaf, with not a family name on it.  Couldn’t stand Bella amongst the rest.”

“You must have strained most of the gnats out of your drink, Argyle,” said Lilly, laughing.

“Assiduously!  Assiduously!  I can’t stand these little vermin.  Oh, I am quite indifferent about swallowing a camel or two—­or even a whole string of dromedaries.  How charmingly Eastern that sounds!  But gnats!  Not for anything in the world would I swallow one.”