Reluctantly she went upstairs to change her clothes again. Outside the light was softening from lemon to gold and Helen was afraid that she would never be able to escape into it. Turning her back on the panorama she peered into her suitcase, and began to understand Kim’s shopping obsession. If guests at the Palazzo Croce were expected to change clothes for every meal, Helen thought, she would have to start shopping for herself.

The lounge turned out to be the long first-floor room that fronted the Canal. It was windowed from floor to ceiling, but the heavy carved shutters were pulled almost to so that the room was shadowed. Helen glanced around in fascination while Masefield poured her a drink from the elaborate trolley in one corner. He had looked faintly surprised when she refused whisky. The proportions of the room were perfect, but they were blurred by the fussiness of the furnishings. There were heavily swagged and tasselled curtains at the windows, superfluous to the intricate shutters. A great many spindly occasional tables lurked between the overstuffed sofas, and there was a predominance of cushions and small objects in coloured glass. The worn, beautiful mosaic floor was covered with expensive bright modern rugs. Evidently Kim disliked it, but didn’t quite have the courage to hide it entirely.

On the end wall her portrait, flashily done in oils and prominently featuring the diamond on her engagement finger, was lit with a special strip light. The whole effect reminded Helen irresistibly of Naples.

The important guests had not yet arrived. Pansy, wearing a silk dress that was slightly too old for her, was sitting meekly next to Masefield and talking to him about Oxford. Across the room Chloe looked her most polished. There was a heavy gold chain around her neck and gold bracelets against her black sleeve. She looked amused and more animated than she had done for weeks. From time to time Masefield’s eyes settled on her. Kim had attention to spare for no-one. She was darting to and fro moving cushions and rattling the drinks trolley. Her blonde hair was piled up on top of her head and her strapless white dress managed to suggest both the naivety of a Greek tunic and the price tag of a top couturier.

‘Well, are you all set to see Venice?’ Masefield asked Helen loudly.

‘Yes. I can’t wait.’

‘Helen likes paintings,’ Pansy put in.

Masefield beamed at his daughter. ‘Good, good. With your studies going so well you should be able to tell Helen all about those -inis and -ettos that everyone makes so much of.’ His voice breathed the respect of the self-made man for the idea of ‘studies’. Helen, well aware that she knew ten times more about Renaissance art than her friend and that Pansy had not attended a single lecture of her art history course, looked away from Pansy’s angelic smile and murmured, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’