The new exhibit includes a seascape, a religious allegory, and a still life that has a skull in it. There are oil portraits of stern men in colonial dress, and powdered women with corseted waists too cinched to be anatomically possible without bruised ribs and crowded organs. I never know what I’m going to see from one visit to the next because most of the art is on loan from the surrounding Harvard museums, which hold one of the finest collections anywhere.

The paintings constantly rotate, and this appeals to Benton in particular because it’s not dissimilar to how he grew up. His wealthy father invested in art and constantly moved priceless paintings in and out of the Wesley home, a brownstone mansion not so different from the Faculty Club.

How amazing it must be to pick a Pieter Claesz this week and a J. M. W. Turner or Jan Both the next. And maybe a Johannes Vermeer or a Frans Hals while we’re at it, I think as I scan our private gallery, each painting illuminated by a museum light and framed in gold.

It’s difficult to imagine growing up the way Benton did when I compare it to the minimalist and decidedly nonglamorous conditions of my Miami upbringing. He comes from Ivy League New England stock while I’m the only one in my second-generation Italian family who went to college. As hard as it was to have so little in every sense of the word, I’m grateful that when I was growing up I didn’t get what I thought I wanted.

Benton was deprived in a different way. He got everything his parents wanted. He lived their dreams, and in many ways it only made him more impoverished and lonely. I imagine I was sad and isolated at times when I was a child. But what I remember most is feeling driven, having no choice but to learn to make do, whether it was the way I dressed, what shampoo I could afford or how long I could make something last.

I became adept at experiencing the world through books, photographs and movies because there was no such thing as a vacation or traveling anywhere for any reason until I finally began visiting colleges in my midteens. Benton on the other hand lacked for nothing except attention and a normal boyhood. He says he never felt rich until we met, and it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

He moves the table a little, angling it as he pleases, as if the dining room belongs to him. “I’m worried you’re going to be cold.”

“So far I’m all right. Other than the way I look.”

“Which is beautiful. Always the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.” Benton smiles at me as he pulls out my chair.

“I think you’re made delusional by the heat.” I sit down.