Michele was fascinated to observe the change in her as she said this—her resolute, instructive manner falling away and being replaced by an emotional stillness of breast and shoulders, a voice tremulous with feeling. It was not that she had lost her composure; whatever moved her expressed itself out of private, contained reserves.

“It is the story of a love affair supposedly conducted between the grand duke and a noble lady who lived in the palace just to the right of the statue.” The guidebook closed in her indifferent grasp as she recounted this matter known by heart. “You will see that the grand duke’s head is slightly turned in that direction. The legend is that they met only once, but that for years afterward the duke went past this house each day and the lady sat in the window to exchange a glance with him. After many years, her looks no longer being what they were, the lady had a bust of herself in youth placed at the window, so he might see that as he passed each day, rather than her aging face. Subsequently, the grand duke placed the statue here, where it might always look at her.”

The girls were enchanted. So was Michele. So, he noted, was the teacher, turned away now toward the corner of the square and pointing, like a statue herself, her arm outstretched and her head uplifted.

“Why didn’t they get married, Miss Ingram?”

“That was not possible.” She said this gravely, conclusively, declining to gossip on a circumstance so crucial.

“Which window is it, Miss Ingram, with the bust of the lady?”

“There’s no bust. It’s only a story. Browning made up that part after he’d seen the statue.”

“Ohhh.” Comically, they exaggerated their disappointment with long-drawn-out ohhs until she had to stop them.

“Can you say it, Miss Ingram, the poem?”

Michele saw her hesitate. She could say it, but didn’t have the courage.

“Say it, Miss Ingram!”

“Say it,” he added unheard.

She made up her mind. “It’s too long.” She smiled—she had a sweet smile—looking all around the group of girls as if her care for them went beyond safe custody. “When we go into the church,” she told them, her voice leveling again, “you’ll see a picture by Andrea del Sarto, a painter who was also the subject of a poem by Browning.”

Michele grinned. So it turns out that the whole piazza belongs to this Robert Browning. Who would have thought it? He enjoyed the idea of this little woman trekking her literature around the world, imposing it on oblivious monuments. All the same, it was evident that, as far as she was concerned, Andrea del Sarto wasn’t in the same class with the grand duke.

While they were still turned toward the statue, a man wheeling a barrow crossed the end of the square.