“You don’t mind if I go out by myself, do you?” I asked. “I’d like to do some sketching.”

She frowned. “I don’t really think that would be suitable. What would your father say if I let you wander around Venice alone? What if you get lost? What if you stray to an undesirable part of the city?”

“I know the way to St Mark’s Square now,” I said. “I shall just go in that direction and sit and sketch. And it is broad daylight. And there are other tourists.”

She considered again before saying, “Very well. I suppose I can’t insist that you stay cooped up with me all day. But make sure you wear your hat, and don’t sit out in the sun too much.”

I tried not to show my elation as I stuffed my art supplies into my bag, put on my hat but not my gloves—who could possibly draw with gloves on?—and set off. I sat first in the square in front of Santo Stefano Church and sketched the fountain, then the children running barefoot around it. Then I moved on, pausing to sketch an interesting balcony with geraniums spilling over it, a column and even a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. So many wonderful things. If I wasn’t careful, I’d fill my whole sketchbook with Venice and have no space for Florence or Rome. I came to St Mark’s Square and tried to sketch the basilica with all of its crazy domes and statues, looking like something out of One Thousand and One Nights . I gave up in frustration. I needed more lessons in perspective, obviously. Then the campanile. That was so tall that it went off the top of the page. Another failure. I had more success with the famous clock. And with the people who sat outside the café s, taking their morning coffee. Perhaps I was destined to be a portrait painter!

I tried to find a good spot to sketch the Bridge of Sighs but realized that the best views were from the other side. I retraced my steps to the waterfront and stood sketching the narrow canal with its lacy marble bridge. Several tourists tried to peer over my shoulder. Oh dear. My art skills are certainly not good enough for public scrutiny yet, I thought. I hurriedly closed my sketchbook, and at that moment the great bells from the campanile rang out. Twelve o’clock. Golly. I’d better return for lunch, or Aunt H. will be worried. I made my way back to St Mark’s Square and attempted to retrace my route home. I must have come out of the square by a different archway because I didn’t recognize where I was. There had not been a little canal running beside the street when I came in. I pressed on, in what I hoped was the right general direction. I was just crossing the canal via a little stone bridge when I heard a sound. At first I thought it was a baby crying. It was coming from the water beneath me. Then I looked down and saw a cardboard box floating past. And from the box came the sound. Not a baby, but what sounded like the mewing of kittens. Someone had thrown a box of kittens into the canal to drown them!