Miss Frobisher was dismayed to find, when she awoke, that no tea would be served at four o’clock. “I simply can’t exist without my cup of tea, Miss Browning,” she said. “Is there no tearoom nearby?”

“The only tearoom I know is in St Mark’s Square, called Florian, very ritzy and ornate, and I’m sure it’s quite expensive. Normal people don’t drink tea here. Only coffee.”

“Coffee in the afternoon? Whatever next?” Miss Frobisher shook her head.

I remembered that the pensione where I had stayed with my aunt had indeed served tea in the afternoon, but then it catered to English guests, which this convent clearly didn’t.

“I suspect the girls would like an ice cream instead,” I suggested. “They are really awfully good here.”

“That might do the trick,” Miss Frobisher agreed.

The girls emerged, one by one, bleary eyed and not wanting to do much.

“We’ve only such a short time here that we need to do something today,” I said. “How about going for an ice cream? I know a perfect gelateria near the Rialto Bridge.”

That cheered everyone up. I led them, following the map, through the twists and turns of backstreets until we came out to a familiar broader area where the market was held. And when we started up the shallow steps of the Rialto Bridge and the expanse of the Grand Canal stretched in both directions, there were gasps of amazement from the girls.

“Oh, look down there. See the gondolas? And all those lovely buildings. It’s like something from a film, miss. Or a fairy tale.”

I found myself smiling as if I had personally created the scene for their pleasure.

“You wait until you see St Mark’s Square tomorrow. And the Doge’s Palace. But you’ve all brought your sketchbooks, haven’t you? We’ll buy our ice creams, and then we’ll find a place to sit and sketch for a while. You can do the bridge, or the market stalls, or even an interesting rooftop or door knocker. There is never a shortage of things to draw in Venice.”

They all chose different flavours of gelato. I suggested lemon and hazelnut as being refreshing, and several girls followed suit. Then we sat on the steps of an old church, licking feverishly before the ice cream melted, giving sighs of contentment. We sketched for a good hour before returning to the convent along the main thoroughfare on the other bank of the canal that led back to the station. We passed lots of interesting shops along the way—shops that sold gold and jewellery, leather goods and carnival masks—and it was clear that the girls would have to be dissuaded from shopping rather than observing art. Just like me, all those years ago, I thought.

Dinner was a tomato salad with mozzarella cheese, another dish of pasta, this time with tiny clams, and a cheeseboard and fruit bowl to finish. As we were leaving the table, the nun who was looking after us came in to wish us goodnight.