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bother to tell her things. And in having nothing to do, no object in life.
    ‘ Signor Marco has returned to Rome,’ she ventured, wondering what the response would be.
    Marco’s mother sat down and stared out to sea. ‘ He comes and goes. He is always busy, that one.’ She seemed to take it for granted that Jan was wearing a sun-suit belonging to her daughter. Or did not notice.
    ‘ Signora, you promised me an Italian lesson. Is it convenient now?’
    ‘ Why not? Fetch my embroidery, child, and we can begin.’
    Jan had no idea where to find the embroidery, but rang for Francesca and quickly made the girl understand, by gestures, what she required. Marco’s mother was a good teacher and seemed to enjoy Jan’s company, but after half an hour the girl called a halt. ‘ You must not tire yourself. What do you do in the mornings, signora ?’
    ‘ Go round the gardens with my husband.’
    Jan stood up and took the fine linen embroidery away. ‘ But since your husband is not here today, will you go round with me?’
    ‘ But naturally. You are our guest. Come and see.’ Without further comment, her hostess led Jan round the pool and into the garden proper.
    The tour took time. There were so many corner s, so many plants, and the Signora knew each one and what it needed. Flowers flowed like fountains from the walls, from tall white plant-stands. There were miniature rock gardens, and banks of ferns clustered round tiny fountains. The garden was so much part of the house, and the house part of the garden, that one could not always be sure whether one was indoors or out. Sometimes there was a view of the sea, and sometimes of the mountains. Up flights of steps, down into secret grottoes each with its stone deity and often a stone seat too. The Signora was tireless, drawn on and on by her enthusiasm, her love for every growing thing.
    ‘ This is my husband’s favourite,’ she said so many times, and always with a glowing smile. But never, Jan noticed, did she expect her husband to appear. She was not looking for him. They were together in spirit only. It was the happiest hour of her day, Jan was convinced.
    Reluctantly, she found herself agreeing with Marco. It would be cruel to sever this delicate link.
    At last they came out on to a terrace, where chairs were set out, and a white wrought-iron table. The terrace overhung the sea on the harbour side of the island and dominated the view with a larger-than-life white statue of some Roman emperor set on the corner. Far below, Jan could see the busy little harbour, the bright coloured fishing boats, the gaily decorated horse - carriages; all looked like toys. Her companion sat down, with a little sigh as if her long walk had exhausted her. She pointed to a silver bell on the table, which Jan rang. Francesca appeared at once, with a tray of cool drinks and some almond cakes. Plainly this was a regular routine and the girl had been waiting for her mistress.
    As they rested, Jan asked the Italian for harbour. Il porto. She memorized the word carefully. After the siesta, she would ask Dino to take her down there in the beach buggy, to buy postcards and perhaps find a few presents and souvenirs which would be different from the usual tourist trash.
    ‘There’s an orange tree!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘ With oranges and blossom at the same time. I mean to make a list of all the things you have in this astonishing garden. But right now, I’m going to laze under it.’
    The Signora smiled at her guest’s enthusiasm. ‘ We planned the orange trees together, my husband and I. This was a bare rock when we began.’
    Jan dragged her chair under the tree and tilted it till she could stare up through the fruit and flowers, and the sun filtered through the leaves.
    ‘ Why don’t you go on planning?’
    ‘ At my age? It’s too late. I would never see a new garden flower.’
    ‘ For your grandchildren.’
    ‘ I have none.’
    Jan sat up again. ‘ That’s no way for a