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heard:
porta fortuna!
    “That ring, for instance,” Francis icily pointed it out, “please show it to me,” and shut his eyes until he felt it resting in his palm. It looked Greek, of soft gold, with an owl in relief, and very small, a child’s ring, found in the grave of a dead child. It barely fitted over the first joint of his third finger, and would not be dislodged, causing his hand to suggest a detail from some Renaissance portrait. “How much does it
     cost?”
    Being gold, and of the fourth century, it could be had—the old man calculated, dissembling his stupefaction, the sale by now certain—for no less than fifty thousand lire.
    “Here is forty thousand.
Va bene?”
    “Ma, signore mio
—!” A wheedling note, a rolling back of eyes.
    “Very well!” cried Francis, who loathed haggling but felt called upon to do it in Europe. He caught with pleasure the old man’s look of frustration, that of an actor whose finest scene has been struck from the script. Throwing down the five implausible bills, rose and umber with protraits of Dante, Francis added, “I am leaving at once for America!”
    What had passed in the shop seemed to have removed any alternative. He hurried out into the dazzling square.
    And in the taxi, and on the train to Naples, his back to fountain and cypress; throughout the nightmare of customs, squabble and tip; and before falling at last asleep in his gently rocking cabin, he found that it soothed him to study the ring. The hand that wore it lay relaxed all night under the coarse pillow, gathering up each dream of touching or rejecting that Francis, awake, tried not to entertain.
    3. “Run into the next room, dearest, and bring me a little cushion. Oh my, there I go! You couldn’t have been more than six, the day you said to me, ‘Mummy, running’s not so easy as you make it sound.’ Thank you, I’ll fix it. It goes in the small of my back. Oh, and while you’re up, if you wouldn’t mind emptying your ashtray—that’s a good boy.
    “But I didn’t
want
you to know that I’d been ill. It was too pathetic in the first place, catching measles at my age. I still haven’t thought how it happened. I hadn’t been anywhere, I hadn’t kissed any children. No, if I felt you’d come back to New York on my account, well, I’d never have forgiven myself. I didn’t need you. And luckily you were so occupied with your own affairs that you thought
     nothing of those weeks in which I wasn’t up to writing more than a line. I know that sounds full of self-pity but it’s not meant that way. I’m honestly and truly glad that you weren’t worried. It’s a sign that we have a normal friendly relationship. Didn’t I write you, when you first went to Europe, the things Annette Woodruff said to me? ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said,
‘how
you can let Francis go
     away like this. He’s all you have!’ Now there’s a woman with four children, all of them married, with families. She spends at least two months out of the year with each child. I’ve never wanted to be that kind of mother and I hope you’ll let me know the day you catch me at it. I said that to Annette. I said, ‘Francis is a grown man now, old enough to do as he thinks best. I will never interfere with his life. The only reward I want is the
     gratitude and respect I get from him, for knowing how to leave him absolutely alone.’
    “There’s a nice letter from Annette on the dresser. You can read it and tear it up before you go. I’ve answered it.
    “It’s perfectly true, at one time I did need you. I needed all the help I could get. And you helped me, way beyond your twelve years—I want you to believe that. You’ll remember also, I never kept you from visiting your father whenever you wished. It was your own sweetness, Son, thatdecided you to spend so much time with me. I did my best to make it easy for you. Did you once see me shed a tear, that whole time? And I know
     now that I was right, seeing how