One evening, he did not find them when he arrived at the café, although a mild, beautiful day had brought him there earlier than usual. The café was on a slight elevation commanding the paved shell of the piazza, and he looked about with a tender, habitual pleasure at the ripe rose and gold of the buildings and the soaring rocket of the campanile. The open space fluttered with bright dresses and blue shirts and indolent pigeons. One or two passersby raised their hands to him in greeting, and the waiter, approaching the table with a tray under his arm, made him a little bow and wished him good evening.

“Buona sera, Sergio,” returned Vittorio. “Come va?”

“Eh, Professore, si tira avanti; si tira avanti.”

They contemplated the view for a moment together before Sergio disappeared to fetch Vittorio’s Campari. Vittorio put on his reading glasses and took up his newspaper. As he did so, he thought he saw Isabel coming toward him across the square, and he paused, the folded paper in one hand. He could not be sure that it was she, and as she drew near he removed his glasses, crinkling his eyes into the late sunshine. When she was still some paces away, he stared at her and said, quite loudly: “You’ve cut your hair!”

She sat down beside him and laid her parcels on the table. Her hair, which exuded a singed, scented smell, framed her face in two Ionic curves just above her shoulders. She balanced one foot on the rod beneath the table.

Vittorio placed his paper and glasses on the cloth before him. “But why?”

She made a small, incompetent gesture. “Well, you know. It gets hot in summer, and when you wash it, it takes so long to dry. And then—Jonathan complained that there were long hairs over everything.…” She touched her head curiously. “I expect it will grow again.”

“How long did it take to grow before?”

“Six years.” She looked grave for a moment, and then began to laugh, partly at his agitation.

The waiter came up with Vittorio’s Campari and looked at her mournfully. “Si è tagliata i capelli, la signora.”

Vittorio, glancing at her lowered, reddened face, gave Sergio a commiserating nod and, taking up his paper once more, ordered for her.

“I didn’t think there would be such a fuss,” she said.

He smiled. “The whole town will know by tomorrow.”

“Hello,” said Jonathan, making his way among the tables. He sat down on the other side of Isabel. “I got the Observer—I thought you might have bought the Times already. Have you ordered yet?” He looked around for Sergio. “You’ve had your hair cut.”

“What do you think?” she asked, again raising her hand to her head.

“I suppose it’s more practical.” He leaned back in his chair, surveying the square.

Vittorio, absorbed in his own newspaper, avoided Sergio’s eyes.