“Well, perhaps that’s your trouble; you understand too readily. It makes it so easy for me. Anyway, I thought, Yes, that’s what she needs. Someone who would make a scene. Someone who would make her his life’s work. Someone like old Vittorio.”

“What do you mean?” she said, not moving.

“What I mean, darling, is that the poor old chap’s head over heels in love with you—in his quaint, Old World way, I hasten to add.” He raised his head. “Did you realize that?”

“Well, yes, I did,” she replied, “of course.”

He shut his eyes. “That’s what I can’t bear about women. They always know everything first. They behave as though men were—Americans in Europe.” He looked at her again. “Well, don’t look like that. I’m not suggesting it’s reciprocated. Hardly. It’s just that he’d really be so much better for you, mutatis mutandis.”

She drew away from him, clasping her hands vaguely against her breast, her nails forgotten. “What did you do today?” she asked.

“I went to Asciano, to see the museum at the church,” he said. “And I saw a Sassetta in a private collection.”

“Was it nice?” she inquired politely.

He smiled. “Well … it was a Sassetta.”

She went back to her chair and took up the little bottle of lacquer. Jonathan watched in the mirror the uneven strokes of her hand and the sealed calm of her brow. He raised his head to speak again, but did not, although Isabel’s hand paused at the abrupt intake of his breath. Presently he lay back across the bed and closed his eyes.

One hot afternoon at the end of July, Vittorio was returning from his brother’s empty villa. He usually inspected the house every three or four weeks, sending Giacomo a note about anything that had to be done. The responsibility was something of a burden to him, for his visits left him dispirited, less by the nostalgia they evoked than by its insufficiency. He had always been resigned to the course of his life.

Driving into the city, he was obliged to circle the large piazza at the post office, and as he slowed at its central plot of garden he saw Isabel at a café table, reading in a patch of shade.

He drew the car up under a red and blue umbrella marked “Punt e Mes.” “Mrs. Murray!” he called. “Mrs. Murray!” She did not hear him. He turned off the engine and, getting out of the car, went up to her table.

She was so startled that she splashed coffee into the saucer as she set down her cup. She looked up, shading her eyes and pointing with her other hand to the chair beside her.

He shook his head. “I’ve left the car over there, in the street. I’ve been to my brother’s house. I wondered if you’d like a lift home.”