‘Oh no!’ he had said. ‘No. I’m not a real godson, you see. I’m just part of the collection. Cuckoo collects us like some people collect stamps or paperweights or potlids. She finds us all over the place.’

‘Ah yes … a great collector, Cuckoo.’

‘But I hope that you’ll agree,’ said Marcus, ‘that she does it with a very discerning eye?’

Ten out of ten for that, thought Cuckoo with satisfaction, and went to greet the dreaded Courtneys who were looking about for photographers with expectant smiles.

The Italians, a sparkling band of the Commedia del’Arte, had integrated smoothly and without fuss. Minerva had swooped down on Lilli Scarlatti who had chosen to appear dressed as a Chinese peasant in black silk trousers and high-necked shirt with an immense bamboo hat flat on her head and a wicker basket clutched in jade-studded hands, and borne her off to the Auribeaus who had discovered, with cries of happy recognition, that they had all once shared a cure at Montecatini … and Sylva Puglia, shimmering in tight green silk, almost instantly collected an audience of admiring elderly males who sat around her in a giggling circle while she read their hands with many a shriek of coarse laughter and a vigorous tossing of long red hair. Archie and Nando Belluno had moved into the shade of the trees and were deeply engrossed in some discussion, while the sad-eyed Wolf Hagel, slender in trim white shorts, his brassy blond hair shining in the sun, kept a few paces behind Leni wherever she went as if afraid to lose her.

Through all this Marcus moved with obvious enjoyment, and the only cloud in Cuckoo’s sky, Umberto Grottorosso, arrived very late, on his own, and instantly dispersed any possibility of cloudiness or doubt by the shimmering splendour of his appearance. She saw him quite suddenly across the crowded lawns, standing alone at the top of the terrace steps, a blinding white figure, tall, lithe, calm, looking down upon the laughter with cool detachment, a small package in his hands. She moved quickly towards him, aware that it was he, although completely unprepared, as Archie had been before her, for the elegance he presented. White patent boots, narrow glossy kid trousers, a skin-tight silk shirt, open to his waist, the patrician head capped with cropped platinum hair, a heavy silver chain around his neck. He smiled slightly as she came quickly up the steps.

‘Count Grottorosso! How frightful! No one to greet you…’

He took her offered hand, raised it to his lips.

‘My fault indeed, Lady Peverill. My fault. I am shamed, so late, so ill-mannered.’

‘Oh no! Not at all. Signore Bell-whatever-his-name-is, with the dark glasses, said that you were delayed. We were warned…’

‘A call from New York. They are always late. Six hours difference, I had to sit.’ He offered the small package. ‘A most modest apology. If you accept it from me I shall know that I am quite forgiven.’