‘No, he actually flew through the air. There’s a distinction, you know. That’s why he’s the patron saint of air travellers.’

Leisurely discussions about saints and their doings; talk of artists and their frescoes – all conducted against a backdrop of a landscape so entrancing as to be reminiscent of that which the great artists of the Renaissance had chosen for their paintings – filled the morning so effortlessly that the arrival of noon was always a surprise.

Antonia was not forgotten. There was a daily telephone call to check up on her progress. At first this call was made to Santa Maria Nuova in Florence, and then, after her transfer to the countryside, to the convent at which she was being looked after by the Tiny Sisters. For the first few days they spoke to a nun who reported on Antonia’s condition, but after that the patient herself was allowed to come to the phone, and assured them that she was very comfortable and being well looked after by the sisters. ‘They are teaching me needlework,’ she said. ‘And I am joining in their devotions. The sisters are very welcoming.’ There was no mention of Giotto or Botticelli – a good sign, Domenica thought, in the circumstances.

And if Angus and Domenica found contentment in that place, so too did Cyril, perhaps to an even greater degree. For him the Italian countryside was an exquisite patchwork of possibility in which intriguing scents jostled one another for his attention. He had also made several new canine friends, a motley band of three high-spirited Italian dogs that had some connection with the nearby farm, although they did not appear to live there.

Their collars, inspected by Angus, for whom they had a particular affection, revealed their names: Claudio, Ernesto and Cosimo, and there were traces of an inscribed address too, but this had been worn away and was now unintelligible. The farmer’s wife fed these dogs, but disclaimed ownership; they were, she explained, dogs who had always been there, descendants of a dog that had once belonged to a wiry shepherd who had ridden with great distinction in the Sienese Palio years before. That was all she knew.

Cyril met up with these dogs every day and went off with them on some mission, the details of which Angus was never able to ascertain. They returned at midday, their tongues hanging out for the heat, and enthusiastically drained the bowls of water he put out for them.

‘It’s strange,’ said Domenica from her deckchair in the shade. ‘It’s very strange to think of Cyril having an independent existence. And yet he does, doesn’t he? Didn’t he have an affair once?’

‘It was very brief,’ said Angus. ‘They only saw one another once. It was in Drummond Place Gardens.’

‘And yet she had puppies, didn’t she? Six or seven, weren’t there?’

Angus nodded. ‘Yes. And their owner landed me with them.’