served his visitor like a housemaid. But none of this detracted from the silent assurance with which he bore himself, and with which he seemed to domineer over his acquaintance.
At last the meal was ready. Lilly drew the curtains, switched off the central light, put the green-shaded electric lamp on the table, and the two men drew up to the meal. It was good food, well cooked and hot. Certainly Lilly's hands were no longer clean: but it was clean dirt, as he said.
Aaron sat in the low arm-chair at table. So his face was below, in the full light. Lilly sat high on a small chair, so that his face was in the green shadow. Aaron was handsome, and always had that peculiar well-dressed look of his type. Lilly was indifferent to his own appearance, and his collar was a rag.
So the two men ate in silence. They had been together alone for a fortnight only: but it was like a small eternity. Aaron was well now—only he suffered from the depression and the sort of fear that follows influenza.
"When are you going?" he asked irritably, looking up at Lilly, whose face hovered in that green shadow above, and worried him.
"One day next week. They'll send me a telegram. Not later than Thursday."
"You're looking forward to going?" The question was half bitter.
"Yes. I want to get a new tune out of myself."
"Had enough of this?"
"Yes."
A flush of anger came on Aaron's face.
"You're easily on, and easily off," he said, rather insulting.
"Am I?" said Lilly. "What makes you think so?"
"Circumstances," replied Aaron sourly.
To which there was no answer. The host cleared away the plates, and put the pudding on the table. He pushed the bowl to Aaron.
"I suppose I shall never see you again, once you've gone," said Aaron.
