Sitting there on the terrace, with his first cigarette of the day between long fingers and Bruna and Fanny clearing the wreckage of the breakfast table, he was aware that he had let his mind wander away from the essential fact, as Minerva had told him, that Grottorosso was of impeccable lineage, an aristocrat to the tip of his finger-nails and the top of his head, related, indeed, on his mother’s side in some rather hazy way to Giovanni Bellini, and a Count to boot. But his imagination had snapped on the unpalatable words ‘Film Producer’ and his unreasoning distrust of the race from which they were normally spawned. Thus Grottorosso, whatever his background, must have inherited some of their faults, if not all.

However, he felt perfectly strong and confident; he was on his own ground, in both meanings of the phrase, and he desired nothing whatsoever from this fellow soon to be his guest. In fact the boot was quite on the other foot: he would treat him exactly as he had treated all Foreigners with whom he had come into contact during the happier days of the War, in Cairo; with cool good manners, distant politeness, firmness, leaving them with the indelible impression that he was right, they were wrong, and that in any case he knew best.

If, secretly, he was gratified that a man of Grottorosso’s undoubted fame should seek his opinion on his work, for Minerva had also been at great pains to acquaint him with the rather formidable list of successes the fellow had had and the very exalted rank which he occupied in the Cinema Hierarchy, he had no intention whatever of allowing himself to show it. It was pleasing indeed to have Mahomet coming to the mountain, but there was no reason to let it go to his head, although his own work and reputation were mostly known only among students and scholars. Yes: it was pleasing but he would see to it that the fellow got his facts absolutely right first and foremost. If he refused, then it was simple. Wish him adieu and waste no time in tiresome discussions; he could take it or leave it. Even though the script was impressive in many ways, and brilliantly concise, there was one ugly fact which must be obliterated at whatever cost. History is history. You can’t muck about with it for a cinema film, and if they did he would wash his hands of it. He had all his facts and figures assembled; he knew, intimately and in detail, his subject. He drew heavily on his unlit cigarette, well satisfied that he was absolutely prepared for whatever should befall.

He had not prepared himself, however, for the sight of Umberto Grottorosso as he stepped from the dark Mercedes only a very few moments later.