“No, by God,” he said.  “I should be in a poor way otherwise.”

“You can’t say you haven’t the advantage—­your JOB gives you the advantage.”

“All right.  Then leave it out with my job, and leave me alone.”

“That’s your way of dodging it.”

“My dear Aaron, I agree with you perfectly.  There is no difference between us, save the fictitious advantage given to me by my job.  Save for my job—­which is to write lies—­Aaron and I are two identical little men in one and the same little boat.  Shall we leave it at that, now?”

“Yes,” said Aaron.  “That’s about it.”

“Let us shake hands on it—­and go to bed, my dear chap.  You are just recovering from influenza, and look paler than I like.”

“You mean you want to be rid of me,” said Aaron.

“Yes, I do mean that,” said Lilly.

“Ay,” said Aaron.

And after a few minutes more staring at the score of Pelleas, he rose, put the score away on the piano, laid his flute beside it, and retired behind the screen.  In silence, the strange dim noise of London sounding from below, Lilly read on about the Kabyles.  His soul had the faculty of divesting itself of the moment, and seeking further, deeper interests.  These old Africans!  And Atlantis!  Strange, strange wisdom of the Kabyles!  Old, old dark Africa, and the world before the flood!  How jealous Aaron seemed!  The child of a jealous God.  A jealous God!  Could any race be anything but despicable, with such an antecedent?

But no, persistent as a jealous God himself, Aaron reappeared in his pyjamas, and seated himself in his chair.

“What is the difference then between you and me, Lilly?” he said.

“Haven’t we shaken hands on it—­a difference of jobs.”

“You don’t believe that, though, do you?”

“Nay, now I reckon you’re trespassing.”

“Why am I?  I know you don’t believe it.”

“What do I believe then?” said Lilly.

“You believe you know something better than me—­and that you are something better than me.  Don’t you?”

“Do YOU believe it?”

“What?”

“That I AM something better than you, and that I KNOW something better?”

“No, because I don’t see it,” said Aaron.

“Then if you don’t see it, it isn’t there.  So go to bed and sleep the sleep of the just and the convalescent.  I am not to be badgered any more.”

“Am I badgering you?” said Aaron.

“Indeed you are.”

“So I’m in the wrong again?”

“Once more, my dear.”

“You’re a God-Almighty in your way, you know.”

“So long as I’m not in anybody else’s way—­Anyhow, you’d be much better sleeping the sleep of the just.  And I’m going out for a minute or two.  Don’t catch cold there with nothing on—­

“I want to catch the post,” he added, rising.

Aaron looked up at him quickly.  But almost before there was time to speak, Lilly had slipped into his hat and coat, seized his letters, and gone.