Jonathan spent the following morning at Asciano. Isabel stayed behind, promising to complete his card index, but she soon left the unsorted cards on the salotto table and went out shopping. She had lunch in the town, and Jonathan, returning earlier than expected, missed her and went to lunch alone. In the afternoon, he went back to the house on his way from the cathedral to the museum, and was told by Giuseppina that Isabel had come in some time ago and was having tea with Vittorio.

That evening, he left the museum before it closed and went straight home. He entered their room quietly, and closed the door behind him.

She was sitting at the mirror, painting her nails. She smiled into his reflection, but when he bent to kiss her she cried out: “Oh, be careful—my nails!”

He turned away impatiently and sat down on the bed, his hands on his knees.

She got up and came to him. He moved his feet apart to let her come between his knees, not lifting his hands. She rested her wrists on his shoulders, the fingers stiffly extended to dry.

“For God’s sake, stop thinking about your nails. I’ve been looking for you all day.” He looked up at her crossly. “Do you love me? An absurd question, as you’re hardly likely to say no, even if you wanted to.”

“It could be important that I went on pretending, couldn’t it?” she asked. “That might be a kind of love.” She frowned. “I don’t much care for this conversation, though; couldn’t we have a shot at something else?”

“The thing is,” he went on, “that I need you. You know that, I suppose?”

“And you resent it.”

“Yes,” he said, “of course. But it could be worse, couldn’t it? I mean, I don’t shout at you or anything.”

“You have no reason to.”

“There wouldn’t have to be a reason,” he explained, reasonably. “What would you do if I did?”

“Cut my throat, perhaps?” she suggested.

He lowered his head against her arm. “That would ruin my whole life.”

“And mine, too, presumably.” She leaned against him. “Jonathan.”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever call you Jon?”

He thought. “In the Army they called me Jon. I rather liked that. It made the whole thing seem more unreal than ever.”

“It’s funny to think of you in the war. Being brave and everything.”

“It helps,” he responded dryly, “if you remember how much younger I was.”

She half smiled. “You know what I mean. Explosions and death, and so on. It all seems too … immediate, for you.”

“You should have married someone—immediate, as you say.” He was silent for a moment. “I was thinking that yesterday, in the piazza. You know, when I showed up and everyone was dying for me to make a scene about your hair?”

“I understood about that,” she said.