But for the wondering eyes, the boy’s expression would have been intense. It was a look that concentrated hard but could not quite find its object. Once or twice he entered the conversation, to express agreement with an enthusiasm suggesting that he seldom found his views shared, or to disagree with an emphasis which confirmed that impression. Between times, he maintained a state of subdued apology for his outbursts; in fact, apology appeared to be for him an involuntary means of self-expression. “I’m sorry,” he said, passing dishes or reaching his daubed arm for the salt; “I’m sorry,” as his wineglass was refilled. His self-effacement was, in its way, demanding; his youth, his gaucheness called up a collective effort of reassurance and encouragement, but he, in a sense, was proving the stronger character. As the evening drew on, his ineptitude pervaded them all.

Signora Ricciardi always left the table early, to negotiate with the cook the meals for the following day. At this interruption, Harold’s mother rose, too, tired from her long day, and nodded around the table. “Don’t stay up late,” she told Harold, who stood to wish her good night. “You know how tired you are.”

This knowledge passively acquired, Harold prepared to hurry with his fruit. Dispelling a momentary, hopeful silence, the other guests encouraged him to stay, describing to him the house and its surroundings, proposing excursions into the town. They listed for him the attractions of Siena, from pinacoteca to post office, and he listened diligently, leaning forward and twisting his napkin about his fingers. He was taking them and their attentions very seriously, almost as seriously as he took himself. A burden of compulsory activities could be seen mounting in his imagination, although he might easily have guessed that those hot days would dwindle into a catalogue of churches unvisited and pictures unsurveyed. At last, with an effort, he mentioned anxiously that he intended to keep part of the day free for his work.

“You must be studying?” asked Dora.

“No, no, I’m not studying anything now.”

“What is your work then?”

“I mean my writing.”

“Writing?”

More vulnerable than ever, he glanced around the table. He was repeating a familiar experience.

“I mean poetry. Well … yes, poems.”

Into the silence Miss Nicholson said gently: “Well, I hope you will read them to us.”

He raised his eyes toward her with his concentrating, round-eyed look, not doubting her word. “I have them here, upstairs,” he said.