She was bright and lively and loved to talk; her pale suffering face had won Alfonso’s sympathy at once.

She seemed devoted to her husband; not so devoted, apparently, to her son Gustavo, aged eighteen, whom she called a rough diamond; her chief affection went to her daughter Lucia, aged sixteen, who did dressmaking in private houses. The mother earned more than all of them as a teacher in an elementary school, but they could not have made ends meet without Lucia’s earnings. Signora Lucinda was desperate at seeing her daughter forced to spend her youth at a sewing machine, while hers had been spent better, for she had come from well-to-do people and had studied and amused herself. Their means now were so narrow that she had been unable to do anything about Lucia’s education; but she did not complain of this, unaware that the results corresponded to the outlay. Intelligent though she was, Signora Lucinda did not notice how insipid her daughter’s prattle was. She saw her as beautiful, while actually Lucia was thin and anaemic like the rest of the family, with fair reddish colouring and, because of her thinness, a mouth that seemed to reach her ears. The mother’s behaviour was like that of a woman of the people, and she even swore, all quite deliberately, for she was an extreme democrat; her daughter had quickly picked up, from the middle-class homes she frequented, ladylike mannerisms quite out of place in her own home. Gustavo, rough and simple, often jeered at her for it, earning his mother’s dislike more by that than by his wastefulness.

Alfonso found his black suit laid out on the bed, carefully folded. Signora Lanucci had thought of everything, from tie to gleaming boots ready at the foot of the bed. Alfonso too felt excited by the visit he was about to make. Though he had not Signora Lanucci’s illusions about it, they were contagious, and he was more agitated than seemed necessary. He took off his everyday suit and flung it on the bed as though he would never have to put it on again.

On entering the small living-room where the family ate, he almost imagined himself to be really well dressed. Signora Lanucci looked at him and admired his appearance. Gustavo, filthy, came up to him with a benevolent smile, his mouth full. This young gentleman aroused no envy in him as his own desires were quite different: a few coins in his pocket for an evening at a tavern, no more. Gustavo was then attached to a copying office and apt to criticize his new job where there was little pay but a lot of work.

With his clean shirt, high collar, well-brushed thick hair, black suit, Alfonso looked quite handsome. He was holding in one hand some light-coloured gloves bought that day on Miceni’s advice. A more expert eye would have noticed shiny patches on the black suit, that its cut was not modern, its collar too open and of poor stuff that yielded to the stiff shirt. But the Lanuccis were not trained to such details.

Lucia had now stopped eating and moved a little away from the table, leaning on the back of a chair with crossed hands—she showed no sign of noticing Alfonso’s special outfit. They were on good terms, and when he was at home she served him willingly. She liked to make herself useful to him, because he always thanked her so pleasantly for all she did. Their exchange of courtesies verged on the excessive, now that she had at last found someone whom she could treat in the way she had noticed people treating each other in the homes where she worked. Her mother encouraged her. Gustavo would say that she was letting off steam on Alfonso.

Signor Lanucci must have been over fifty. He dyed his hair, because he had free samples of dye sent by companies he had offered to represent; his hair was black where it was not whitened by age, and yellowish where it would have been white without dye. He wore a long full beard, its colour blending with his hair. To read in the evenings he put on a clumsy pair of spectacles, so wide between his small grey eyes that they almost fell off his nose.

He complimented Alfonso and asked him to sit next to him, an honour no longer granted to Gustavo since the youth had lost the decent job they had obtained for him with great efforts. This was the only punishment the father could inflict, having neither brain nor energy for any other.

Gustavo, without a word—he had a grudge against his father for having one against him—handed Alfonso a letter. Alfonso did not open it very eagerly. So preoccupied was he that he had not the patience to decipher his mother’s shaky handwriting, and he put the letter back into his pocket after a quick glance.

“That didn’t take long!” said Signora Lanucci with a hint of reproval.

“It’s very short!” replied Alfonso flushing, “She sends you her best wishes.”

The old man had begun describing his day’s work.