In fact I’d never have believed it. Uncle leaving town at the height of the business season! Are these walls so solid that they don’t fall down from surprise? I met him on the stairs, and he told me the news, though with quite a different expression to yours now.”

He gesticulated as he spoke; at intervals he put his hands up close to his ears, as though hinting with an outstretched finger at things of which Alfonso knew nothing.

“I can understand your not being pleased about it,” said Annetta. “When one wants it here though,” and she touched her forehead with her forefinger, “that’s enough.”

Macario asserted that Paris was even more boring in the winter than in the summer. He seemed to be taking revenge for some little defeat; obviously he had tried to prevent this journey.

“In winter the Parisians always have their heads abuzz with something that makes them unbearable. Each year everyone in Paris, every single person, latches on to one subject. One day it’s the fall of the Ministry, another a Deputy’s speech, a third a murder. Always a bore!” he added.

Annetta recognized a novelist’s Paris in this description and exclaimed “Always charming!”

On a former journey she had searched in vain for that side of Paris.

“Each to his taste. If one visits a friend, he’ll talk about nothing but a pistol-shot fired at Gambetta; one arranges some business-deal, and the client is worrying about the pistol-shot and Gambetta; even the shoemaker talks of nothing but Gambetta. Maybe that’s all the better.”

At this joke Alfonso gave a loud laugh because he could find no words to put into the conversation and thought it a duty to show he was taking part.

“The Paris theatre’s all right in winter; a good première is worth the journey.”

Now Macario had set aside any attempt to diminish Annetta’s triumph and spoke seriously, turning to Alfonso, perhaps in thanks for the laughter.

“We’ll go to the première of Odette,” cried Francesca delightedly.

They would telegraph next day for seats.

Macario asked Alfonso whether he was employed by his uncle and for how long. On receiving a reply, he explained how on the stairs his uncle had told him he would find someone who dealt with correspondence in any number of languages. Alfonso replied in monosyllables and, when told of Maller’s praise, bowed in surprise, attributing it to a misunderstanding. Yet it must have been of him Maller spoke. Macario knew Alfonso’s home village and asked if he suffered from homesickness.

“A little,” replied Alfonso. He tried to complete the phrase with the expression on his face, and succeeded.

“You’ll get over it, you’ll see!” said Macario. “One becomes used to everything very easily, I think; to living in town after the country.”

Annetta did not find this conversation amusing and interrupted it without further ado. At the sound of her voice Alfonso raised his head, thinking that she wanted to ask him a question too, but was at once disappointed and so tried to hide the reason for gesture with the assumption of an air of close attention.

“D’you know, I’ve learnt some songs which are popular in Paris so as to act the Gavroche in the streets with Federico?”

Federico was Annetta’s brother. Miceni, who knew him, had described him to Alfonso as a very haughty man. He was in the consular service and was vice-consul at a French port.

“Could we hear one of these songs?” asked Macario.

“Why not?” and she got up. “Would you care to accompany me?” she said to Francesca. “Come on! Macario’s such a bore this evening that this is the best way of passing the time, I think.”

“That’s for us to judge, don’t you think?” replied Macario impertinently.

Alfonso forced a smile. The continual effort to appear at ease tired him. If he could have found a way, he would have left at once.

Francesca, sitting at the piano, had taken a bundle of music on her knees and was telling Annetta the titles. Annetta rejected each with a shake of the head, keeping a hand to her cheek as a sign of reflection. Finally she cried with a burst of laughter: “That one! That one!”

After a few introductory notes the Signorina started up a rudimentary but lively accompaniment.

Annetta began to sing in a sweet level voice, then to Alfonso’s great surprise she began to sway to the rhythm and pretend to run. Francesca roared with laughter; Macario laughed too, and even the singer could not contain herself, to the grave detriment of the song itself which broke off again and again. Then she became serious again, and so did Macario: Alfonso had only laughed in order to do as the others did.

As Annetta sang, she assumed various postures, pretended to be tired, crossed her arms over her breast as if to run better, avoided an obstacle which she cleverly mimed, asked pardon of a person she had bumped into as she ran.

Alfonso knew French, but he had a poor ear, so he found it difficult to understand. Macario, staring fixedly at Annetta and speaking in one phrase at a time in order to interrupt the song less often said:

“It’s a song sung … by a man … running after a bus,” he interrupted himself and murmured admiringly: “You’re doing it splendidly!”

Now Annetta really was tired; she was still pretending to run but jerking around less. She put a hand to her breast, and her voice broke into gasps.

“I can’t do any more,” she said and stopped.

Francesca, laughing, started the accompaniment again. After a few moments of standing still Annetta began to sing again. Her voice sounded fresh and sweet.