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now–’
    Francesca looked into the room and said, ‘There is a gentleman who wishes to see you.’
    ‘You told him I was busy?’
    ‘I told him. He says he will not keep you for many minutes.’
    Broke came out of the office and found Professor Bronzini occupying the centre of the shop. He was wearing a cloak of dark blue cloth, embroidered with gold thread, and a small blue felt cap. A boy was in attendance on him.
    Francesca was fluttering anxiously in the background. Two tourists who had just come into the shop were observing the Professor and making notes of their next letter home.
    Broke did not know whether to be annoyed or amused at this visitation. The Professor made a short, but definite, inclination towards him. Broke said, ‘Good morning.’
    ‘I have come,’ said the Professor, ‘to make a profound apology.’
    ‘On the contrary,’ said Broke, ‘it is I who should be thanking you for a most interesting party.’
    ‘It was an agreeable gathering. But in the course of it, I discovered that I had – unwittingly – insulted you. I assumed that your knowledge of the Etruscans was superficial only. It was not until this morning that I realized that I had been entertaining a celebrity unaware. That you were the Robert Broke, author of the standard work on Etruscan terracotta, proprietor of the Tarquin Gallery and adviser on Etruscology to the Department of Antiquities in the British Museum.’
    The tourists had not understood a word of this speech, but had rather assumed, from the manner in which it was delivered, that the small, round man in a cloak was challenging the thin, serious Englishman to a duel.
    ‘I’m afraid,’ said Broke, ‘that you greatly exaggerate my standing.’
    ‘On the contrary, through ignorance, I have probably understated it. Did you not act as technical adviser to the excavations at Caere two years ago?’
    ‘I was at Caere,’ agreed Broke. ‘I’m not sure that anyone asked for my advice, or would have taken it if I had proffered it.’
    ‘You are too modest. But I did not interrupt you solely in order to flatter you. My object was to make some slight reparation. Should you care, at any time, to visit the few, the not very exciting excavations which are currently taking place on my property near Volterra, I should be more than pleased – I should be flattered.’
    ‘Kind of you,’ said Broke. Feeling that this was perhaps a bit brusque, he added, ‘Very kind of you.’
    At this moment Milo Zecchi, who had sidled out of the office, and crept down the far side of the book counter, reached the door. The movement caught the Professor’s eye. He swung round, and said, ‘Milo! What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were interested in art books.’
    Milo grinned. His embarrassment was plain; but to Broke inexplicable. He said, ‘Milo makes frames for my pictures. He is a fine craftsman. Do you know him?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the Professor. He seemed to lose interest in Milo, who had escaped from the shop and was shuffling off down the pavement as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him. The Professor took out a card and scribbled something on the back.
    ‘If you should have any trouble at Volterra, show that to my factor,’ he said. ‘We have to be careful. We have had trouble in the past. Tomb-robbing is by no means an extinct pursuit in Etruria.’
    He gathered his cloak round him, gestured to the boy, and swept out into the street.
    As Broke walked home to lunch, he was thinking about the events of the morning. It seemed improbable that a busy man like Bronzini should have come all the way down from Fiesole, in person, to apologize. The invitation to the diggings could have been dealt with by letter. Could he really have imagined that Broke had taken offence at the dinner table discussions the night before? That, too, seemed unlikely. The Professor, with his enthusiasm and his didactic manner, must have upset plenty of his guests before now, and not bothered