"Oh, well, it's a matter of opinion. You're the double decker, not me."
"The double decker!" said Francis archly. "Why, what do you mean!—" He rolled his eyes significantly. "But may I introduce my friend Angus Guest."
"You've introduced me already, Francesco," said Angus.
"So sorry," said Francis.
"Guest!" said Aaron.
Francis suddenly began to laugh.
"May he not be Guest?" he asked, fatherly.
"Very likely," said Aaron. "Not that I was ever good at guessing."
Francis tilted his eyebrows. Fortunately the waiter arrived with the coffee.
"Tell me," said Francis, "will you have your coffee black, or with milk?" He was determined to restore a tone of sobriety.
The coffee was sipped in sober solemnity.
"Is music your line as well, then?" asked Aaron.
"No, we're painters. We're going to work in Rome."
"To earn your living?"
"Not yet."
The amount of discretion, modesty, and reserve which Francis put into these two syllables gave Aaron to think that he had two real young swells to deal with.
"No," continued Francis. "I was only just down from Oxford when the war came—and Angus had been about ten months at the Slade—But I have always painted.—So now we are going to work, really hard, in Rome, to make up for lost time.—Oh, one has lost so much time, in the war. And such precious time! I don't know if ever one will even be able to make it up again." Francis tilted his handsome eyebrows and put his head on one side with a wise-distressed look.
"No," said Angus. "One will never be able to make it up. What is more, one will never be able to start again where one left off. We're shattered old men, now, in one sense. And in another sense, we're just pre-war babies."
The speech was uttered with an odd abruptness and didac-
