Giovanna obeyed, calming down. She took the woollen kerchief off her head, revealing a cap of old brocade, from which tumbled torrents of jet black hair, and went to wash in a basin of water placed on a chair. Porredda looked at Bachisia, pressed her finger to her lips, and left without a sound.

Bachisia said nothing. She waited until Giovanna had bathed her face and tidied her hair, then both women silently descended the outside staircase. It was a warm, still night. The first small yellow star had been followed by thousands of silver stars, and the Milky Way lay across the sky like a huge veil embroidered with twinkling jewels. A smell of new-mown hay permeated the air. Concealed in the courtyard trellis, crickets still chirped, and the horse munched, stamping its iron-shod hooves. From some way off came the sound of a mournful song.

The kitchen door and that of a ground-floor room occasionally used as a dining-room stood open onto the courtyard. In the kitchen, beside the kindled hearth, Porredda was busy preparing macaroni. A fair-haired girl, barefoot and dishevelled, squabbled with a boy as fat and florid as his grandmother.

‘Stop that you wicked children or I’ll thrash you with this ladle,’ Porredda said, chasing them off. Escaping into the courtyard they collided with Giovanna and her mother.

‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’

‘They drive me to distraction,’ said old Porredda from the kitchen door.

All at once the dark figure of a young girl moved away from the half-open street door. ‘They’re coming, Grandmother!’ she called excitedly. They’re here!’

‘Let them in, Grazia, and try to control your brother and sister.’

Grazia did not reply. She took the lamp from Bachisia, snuffed it out, and hid it behind a bench in the kitchen. ‘Grandmother, now that Uncle Paolo’s coming, you ought to be ashamed of this lamp.’

‘Why? Do you think Paolo was brought up on gold?’

‘He’s been to Rome.’

‘So what? They don’t have lamps like this in Rome. They have to buy their oil by the pennyworth, while we here can use as much oil as we like.’

‘You’ll soon get into difficulty if you believe that,’ said the girl, and, hearing the voices of her uncle and her grandfather, she turned to the courtyard in a flutter.

‘Hello, Giovanna … Bachisia, how are you?’ came the student’s hearty voice. ‘I’m well, thank the Lord. I was so sorry to hear about your troubles. Bear up. We don’t yet know what will happen. They’re pronouncing sentence tomorrow, aren’t they?’