A dark narrow passage joined his room to the main corridor of offices, still lit, with doors all alike of black frames and frosted glass. Those of Signor Maller and Signor Cellani, the legal adviser, had their names in black on a gilt slip. In the harsh light the deserted corridor, its walls painted in imitation marble, the door jambs shadowless, looked like one of those complicated studies in perspective, made only of lines and sight.

At the end of the passage was a door smaller than the others. Opening this and leaning against the door post, Alfonso called, “Signor Sanneo says we’re all staying till ten tonight.”

“What?”

The question was equivalent to a reply. Alfonso entered the room and found himself facing a thick-set youth with wavy chestnut hair and a low but well-shaped forehead, who had got to his feet and was leaning in a defiant attitude, with fists clenched defiantly, on the long table at which he wrote.

This was Starringer, who had rejected all other promotion to take the vacant post as dispatch manager, thus getting at once the higher pay he urgently needed.

“Till ten? When do we eat then? I’ve worked all day and have a right to leave. I’m not staying!”

“Shall I tell Signor Sanneo that?” asked Alfonso timidly, always timid with those who were not.

“Yes … no, I’ll tell ’im myself!” That resolute “Yes” meant that he was off whatever the consequences; the rest he said in a lower tone. Then suddenly he realized that he could not avoid this new chore and burst into a violent rage. He blamed the correspondence clerks, yelled that when he himself was a clerk (a period he often referred to), they all worked hard during the day but went home at regular hours in the evening. That day he had seen Miceni gossiping in the passage and twiddling at the lock on Ballina’s door. Why did they waste time like that? Scarlet in the face, veins swelling on his forehead, he advanced on Alfonso. When he spoke of the clerks, he held out an arm and pointed at the correspondence department. Alfonso explained that they were not being kept back for any normal work, but that a new job had been given them at the last minute. Starringer’s rage did not lessen, but he stopped shouting. “Ah, so that’s it!” he said, and he shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly.

Letters written during that day lay on the table, some already sealed. Taking no more notice of Alfonso, Signor Starringer seized one, sat down and with a trembling hand copied the address into a book in front of him.

Sitting in the passage was a boy called Giacomo, who had joined the bank on the day after Alfonso. He was fourteen, but his pink and white skin and shortness made him look no more than ten. Although Giacomo laughed and joked all day with the other messengers, Alfonso was sure he was homesick for his native village of Magnago, and felt fond of him.

“Till ten tonight,” he said, touching his chin.

The boy smiled and looked flattered.

Signor Maller came out of his room. He had put on his overcoat, and its cape was hanging from his shoulders. This made him seem taller and slimmer. Alfonso said “Good evening,” and Signor Maller replied with a nod to him and Giacomo. He had a way of making collective greetings.

Santo, Signor Maller’s personal messenger, followed his master along the length of the passage to open the front door for him. He was a little man, not old, bald and with a fair beard colourless in patches. People said he led an idle life, as he had nothing to do but look after Signor Maller, while other messengers served the offices.

On returning to his own room, Alfonso found Miceni already writing away. The latter was rather short-sighted and almost touched the paper with his nose as he wrote.

The telegrams, written out but unaddressed, were on Alfonso’s desk; so was a letter in Signor Sanneo’s handwriting to be copied in confirmation, and finally a list of five companies to which offers were to be sent.

“Only five?”

“Yes,” replied Miceni. “The pay-clerks are writing some out too. We’ll be done by half-past nine or so.”

He had not raised his head; his pen continued running on over the paper.

Alfonso put an address on a telegram, then transcribed it on to a letter. He began reading the telegram; it gave a brief account of why the Mortgage Bank was founded and hinted discreetly at a promise of Government support and mentioned how difficult it was to join the syndicate. “We offer you as priority …”, and a blank space followed, which Alfonso filled in with the number of shares offered. The letter was much more detailed. It went into the need for new large banks in Italy, and how the new bank was therefore certain to flourish.

Miceni told him to jot the first letter down fast as it was to be written out by the other clerks, but Alfonso was incapable of copying fast.