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completely devoid of fun. We have a very fine theatre – do you care for the theatre, Mrs Kingsley?’
    ‘Oh, very much so. And Pip too – he is proving to be a fine actor, in fact,’ says Clare.
    ‘Philip – is it true?’ Marcie leans across and grasps his forearm, staring avidly.
    ‘Well, I …’ Pip’s voice breaks and he clears his throat, flushing. ‘I was in a play last term, and people said I did well. I was Ariel in The Tempest. ’
    ‘And you were quite brilliant, actually,’ says Clare.
    ‘But – I’m an actress, didn’t you know? Well, I was, back in New York. Not much call for it here. But, oh, I love the theatre! I love acting … It’s something in the blood, don’t you think – it’s a calling you can’t ignore. Do you feel that, Pip? Does acting make your heart soar?’
    ‘Well, I … I do think I should like to be in another play, certainly,’ he says. ‘But it’s not something one can really make a career out of, is it?’ These are Boyd’s words, coming out of his mouth, and they give Clare a sinking feeling. Pip’s heart did soar during that play. She saw it happen.
    ‘Well, why ever not? I did.’
    ‘Pip’s a good scholar. He’ll go up to Oxford, and then to chambers,’ says Boyd. He sips the crimson drink then rolls his lips back slightly.
    ‘Add some sugar, if it’s too sour,’ says Leandro, passing him the sugar bowl. Boyd smiles thinly without looking at him, and spoons some into his glass.
    ‘Chambers? You mean law? Ugh, why not say mausoleum? Poor boy!’
    ‘Not at all. My father always intended me for the law, but I hadn’t the mind for it. Pip has. It would be outrageous to waste such natural good fortune.’
    ‘And what about what Pip wants?’ Marcie asks this lightly but Clare can see Boyd taken aback to be challenged; she wishes Marcie would drop it.
    ‘He’s only a boy. He can’t be expected to know what he wants,’ he says. Marcie pats Pip’s arm, then gives him a jaunty wink.
    ‘I’ll work on them, don’t you fret. What’s the law compared to applause?’ she says. Clare is relieved when Boyd chooses not to reply to this question.
    Dinner is an array of dishes, some of which arrive together, some on their own after a suitable pause. Fresh white cheeses, breads, vegetables dressed in lemon and oil; pasta with broccoli; rolled strips of veal; soft focaccia bread oozing olive oil and the smell of rosemary. Pip eats as though he hasn’t for days, but even he is defeated in the end. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and Leandro laughs – a deep, sudden bark.
    ‘Philip – I should have warned you. Forgive me. In this house they will keep bringing food as long as you keep clearing your plate.’ Pip has had a glass of wine, and looks far more relaxed.
    ‘I think I shall be very happy here,’ he says, and Leandro laughs again.
    ‘Perhaps a short walk, to look at the town and to let the meal settle before bed?’ says Clare. She too has overeaten; the smell of the fresh food woke a hunger gone dormant from being so long ignored. Marcie and Leandro share a quick glance between themselves. ‘Isn’t that the thing to do, here in Italy? La passeggiata ?’ says Clare.
    ‘Yes, Mrs Kingsley, that’s so. However, here in the south we take our passeggiata earlier in the evening – around six, as the sun is setting. The gentlefolk, I mean. Now, this late, the streets are … more for the working men, lately back from the fields. There’s no law, of course, but perhaps tomorrow, at an earlier hour, might be better for you to walk,’ says Leandro.
    ‘Oh. I see,’ says Clare. Leandro inclines his head smoothly at her acceptance, and she wonders about the black-and-whiteness of this, the idea that people are either peasants or gentry, with none of the middle strata to which Clare and Boyd belong at home.
    Marcie suggests a tour of the house to Clare instead, when the food is cleared away. Boyd and Leandro stay at the table, drinking a bitter