She stopped and blinked at him, came into focus. He picked up the fallen paper and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, then she set off toward her room, which was in the opposite direction of his. The air she had disturbed held her scent in it.

Andrew showered, then pulled on his jeans and T-shirt. He glanced at the list his father had left on the table between their two beds, with his suggestions for sites that Andrew might visit that morning. He folded the list in half and tucked it into the drawer, grabbed his camera, and headed for the sitting room, which had quickly become his private hangout at the Pensione Ricci.

Seldom used during the day, it was furnished with several constellations of deep sofas and chairs. A dark tapestry covered one wall. Large bright paintings of imaginary landscapes hung on two of the others. On the fourth a pair of long windows opened onto the via Tornabuoni, five floors below.

Andrew headed for the windows. He preferred the one on the left, with its open view up and down the street. He folded back the shutters and fastened them against the exterior of the building. Then he leaned on the windowsill and began to frame his first shot of the day.

Only then did he become aware that he wasn’t alone. The woman from the elevator was sitting at a desk at the other end of the room, reading from, it seemed, more of the typewritten pages that she had been carrying before. Again her eyes were racing; again she didn’t realize that she was being watched.

Andrew loved to take pictures of people reading. He loved the way readers were having a private experience that he could observe, and photograph, without being observed back. Slowly he angled his camera in her direction.

Without looking up from the page she said, “You might at least ask me to smile.”

Andrew lowered the camera abruptly. He blushed. “People don’t usually smile while they’re reading.”

“I do.” She looked up. “When something delights me.”

“You weren’t smiling just now.”

“No”—she sat back in her chair—“I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Or to—offend you. I just—it’s just what I do. Take pictures.”

She studied him for a moment. “I’ve seen you before in here. Staring out the window.”

“Not just staring. Shooting the street. It’s part of a project I’m working on. I like to find patterns, repetitions. It’s how I get to know an unfamiliar place.”

“This is how you spend your days.”

“When my father’s out.”

She looked as if she wanted to know more.

“Giving lectures. He’s presenting at a medical conference here.”

“Your father doesn’t like you to go out without him?”