cachet which he must swallow at every meal.  Because if so, she must remind him to swallow it.  However, at that very moment, he put it on his tongue.  So that she could turn her attention again to Aaron and the imaginary chord on the white damask; the thing she just lived in.  But the rubicund bald colonel, more rubicund after wine, most rubicund now the Marsala was going, snatched her attention with a burly homage to her femininity, and shared his fear with her with a boyish gallantry.

When the women had gone up, Sir William came near and put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder.  It was evident the charm was beginning to work.  Sir William was a self-made man, and not in the least a snob.  He liked the fundamental ordinariness in Aaron, the commonness of the common man.

“Well now, Mr. Sisson, we are very glad to see you!  Very glad, indeed.  I count Mr. Lilly one of the most interesting men it has ever been my good fortune to know.  And so for your own sake, and for Mr. Lilly’s sake, we are very glad to see you.  Arthur, my boy, give Mr. Sisson some Marsala—­and take some yourself.”

“Thank you, Sir,” said the well-nourished young man in nice evening clothes.  “You’ll take another glass yourself, Sir?”

“Yes, I will, I will.  I will drink a glass with Mr. Sisson.  Major, where are you wandering off to?  Come and take a glass with us, my boy.”

“Thanks, Sir William,” drawled the young major with the black patch.

“Now, Colonel—­I hope you are in good health and spirits.”

“Never better, Sir William, never better.”

“I’m very glad to hear it; very glad indeed.  Try my Marsala—­I think it is quite good.  Port is beyond us for the moment—­for the moment—­”

And the old man sipped his brown wine, and smiled again.  He made quite a handsome picture:  but he was frail.

“And where are you bound, Mr. Sisson?  Towards Rome?”

“I came to meet Lilly,” said Aaron.

“Ah!  But Lilly has fled over the borders by this time.  Never was such a man for crossing frontiers.  Wonderful person, to be able to do it.”

“Where has he gone?” said Aaron.

“I think to Geneva for the moment.  But he certainly talked of Venice.  You yourself have no definite goal?”

“No.”

“Ah!  You have not come to Italy to practice your art?”

“I shall HAVE to practice it:  or else—­no, I haven’t come for that.”

“Ah, you will HAVE to practice it.  Ah, yes!  We are all under the necessity to eat.  And you have a family in England?  Am I not right?”

“Quite.  I’ve got a family depending on me.”

“Yes, then you must practice your art:  you must practice your art.  Well—­shall we join the ladies?  Coffee will no doubt be served.”

“Will you take my arm, Sir?” said the well-nourished Arthur.

“Thank you, thank you,” the old man motioned him away.