“This is my favourite statue,” he said, running his hand over its arm as if it were alive.

“Is he really Greek?”

“Napoleon put him here when he created the gardens,” Leo said. “I don’t know if he came from Greece or was made for the gardens in 1800. There are other such statues all over the place.”

“He looks sad,” I said, staring up at the bearded face.

“So would you if the salt from the sea was eating you away,” he commented, his hand touching a hand that had now only stubs for fingers. “But do you know what else I like? This big old tree behind him. A plane tree, I think it is called. When I was a small boy, I used to make a fort in the little space between the statue and the tree. I would hide away and pretend I was on a desert island, all alone, and I could spy on people walking past.”

“I used to make hiding places in our back garden,” I said. “I used to pretend I was a rabbit or a squirrel.”

He gave the statue a final pat. “You should come back and sketch him,” Leo said. “He would like that. To be in your book.”

“I don’t know if Aunt H. would approve. He has no clothes on.”

“She will approve of the gardens. All the English like gardens, don’t they?”

“We don’t have much more time here. Just one day.”

“But you will come back again, when you are a famous artist.”

I had to smile at this. “When I see the art here, I am rather afraid I shall never rise to such heights.”

“But that is the art of the past. You must have seen Picasso, Dalí , Miró ? They break all the rules. They paint the world as they see it. What is in their hearts. That is what you must do.”

“I hope so. I do love to paint and sketch, and Daddy has been nice enough to agree to pay for art school.”

“What does this father of yours do?”

I made a face. “He was wounded in the Great War,” I said. “Gassed, actually. His lungs were badly damaged. He tried going back to his job in the city for a while, but lately he hasn’t been doing much. He inherited a little money from his family, and we live on that. Daddy invests it, and we seem to do quite well. I’ve been to boarding school, and my sister will start there soon.”

“You have brothers?”

“Just one sister. She’s much younger than me. The war came in between, you see.” I paused. “Do you have brothers?”

“Unfortunately, no. I am the only boy. I have two sisters. One has gone into the convent. The other is married and producing babies on a regular basis, as good Italian wives do.”

“You would have liked a brother?”

“Of course. An older brother preferably. Then he could have taken over the business, and I would have been free to do what I want with my life.”