She had a pale complexion, not healthy but anyway young, and clear blue eyes; pale golden hair gave sweetness to her rather irregular features. In stature she was rather short, too short had her figure not been in perfect proportion and so dispensed with any wish to modify it.

She held out a plump white hand.

“You’re Signora Carolina’s son, are you not? And so a good friend of mine, eh?”

Alfonso bowed.

“Is everyone well in the village?”

She asked about a dozen people there, friends whom she had not heard mentioned for years, calling one or two by their nicknames, and mentioning some special characteristic of each. Then she asked about places, naming them with regret and citing happy hours spent there. She asked about a hill at the far end of the village and listened anxiously to his reply as though afraid to hear that it had fallen down in the meantime.

Alfonso found Signorina Francesca charming. No one had revived memories of his home in that way before; Signora Lanucci’s distant lifeless memories had revived nothing. He lived, dreaming sadly of his home, by himself, and transforming it by his very thoughts. The Signorina’s talk corrected his memories and seemed to give them a fresh impression. She was moved by them too.

As Alfonso soon learnt, that had been the happiest year of her life. She had been ill, and the poor family to which she belonged had made great sacrifices to carry out a doctor’s prescription and send her to the country. There she had enjoyed a year’s complete freedom.

She took his hat from his hand and made him sit down.

“Signorina Annetta will be here at once. Have you been waiting long?”

“Half-an-hour!” said Alfonso frankly.

“Who let you in?” asked the Signorina with a frown.

“Signor Santo.”

He said “Signor” out of respect for the person.

Signorina Annetta came in, and Alfonso rose to his feet in confusion, flustered by the long anticipation.

She was a pretty girl, although, as he told Miceni later, he did not find her wide pink face attractive. Tall, in a light dress which showed her pronounced curves to advantage, she was not a type to please a sentimentalist. With all her perfection of form Alfonso found her eyes not black enough and her hair not curly enough. He did not know why but he wished they had been.

Francesca introduced Alfonso. Annetta bowed slightly as she was about to sit down. Obviously she had no intention of saying a word to him. She began reading a newspaper that she had brought with her. Alfonso sensed that she was not reading and that her eyes were fixed on the same point on the page. He flattered himself that she was as embarrassed as he was and wanted to avoid showing it by this pretence of reading. But her face was calm and smiling.

Francesca, less relaxed, tried to start up the interrupted conversation again:

“And does your family still live in that house so far out of the village?”

Alfonso had scarcely time to say “yes”, when Annetta, with a little gurgle of pleasure, which she had been holding back with difficulty till then, said to Francesca: “I was with Papa. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow; he’s promised.”

Francesca seemed pleasantly surprised. Annetta’s voice amazed Alfonso; he had expected one less soft in so strong a frame.

The two women were talking in low voices. Alfonso guessed that Annetta must have used some guile to get some consent out of Signor Maller. Being quite in the dark about it all, he felt rather embarrassed. He looked at a picture to his right; a portrait of an old man with gross features, tiny eyes and a bald head.

Francesca seemed to sense that he was ill-at-ease and tried to make up for the discourtesy of Annetta, who had been the first to whisper. She told him how they had planned a trip to Paris, and now, after refusing for a long time, Signor Maller had finally agreed to go with them and leave his office for eight to ten days at the height of the business season. She turned back to Annetta.

“Did he definitely say I was to go with you?”

She must have been longing for that journey too.

“Of course,” replied Annetta, with a smile which Alfonso had to admit looked attractive.

For a space of time which seemed at least an hour he had to listen passively to the two women’s chatter, at times pretending to pay attention and at others turning modest eyes elsewhere when Annetta lowered her voice and neared her mouth towards Francesca’s ear. When Santo entered and announced Avvocato Macario, he felt relieved.

“Let him in, let him in!” cried Annetta joyously, “he’ll give us a laugh.”

Avvocato Macario was a good-looking man of about forty, dressed with great care, tall and strong, with a brown face full of life, and he greeted Annetta in imitation of Serravilla, “Even lovelier than usual today … ah!” He shook hands with Francesca, who at once introduced Alfonso and, instead of giving the lawyer’s name, said: “The finest moustaches in town!”

“If you knew what a bother it is to keep them like this; I must say that before the Signorina says it!”

Alfonso’s mouth tried to smile; he felt worse than before. Macario’s ease did not relax his embarrassment or make him feel any better.

Annetta had put down the newspaper. She leaned both her elbows lazily on the table.

“There’s some news, my dear cousin! It’ll surprise you!”

She had an air of deriding him.

Macario pretended to look put out.

“I know it already.