down from the box into the palm of the porter, and carried on an impassioned dialogue. Aaron stood with one foot on the step.
"What you give—he? One franc?" asked the driver.
"A shilling," said Aaron.
"One sheeling. Yes. I know that. One sheeling English"—and the driver went off into impassioned exclamations in Torinese. The porter, still muttering and holding his hand as if the coin might sting him, filtered away.
"Orright. He know—sheeling—orright. English moneys, eh? Yes, he know. You get up, sir."
And away went Aaron, under the hood of the carriage, clattering down the wide darkness of Novara, over a bridge apparently, past huge rain-wet statues, and through more rainy, half-lit streets.
They stopped at last outside a sort of park wall with trees above. The big gates were just beyond.
"Sir William Franks—there." In a mixture of Italian and English the driver told Aaron to get down and ring the bell on the right. Aaron got down and in the darkness was able to read the name on the plate.
"How much?" said Aaron to the driver.
"Ten franc," said the fat driver.
But it was his turn now to screw down and scrutinise the pink ten-shilling note. He waved it in his hand.
"Not good, eh? Not good moneys?"
"Yes," said Aaron, rather indignantly. "Good English money. Ten shillings. Better than ten francs, a good deal. Better—better—"
"Good—you say? Ten sheeling—" The driver muttered and muttered, as if dissatisfied. But as a matter of fact he stowed the note in his waistcoat pocket with considerable satisfaction, looked at Aaron curiously, and drove away.
Aaron stood there in the dark outside the big gates, and wished himself somewhere else. However, he rang the bell. There was a huge barking of dogs on the other side. Presently a light switched on, and a woman, followed by a man, appeared cautiously, in the half-opened doorway.
