Sophy looked and dreamed and ached with pleasure and did not listen very closely to Giovanni. She was suddenly tired and vaguely happy. Barnaby Grant walked beside her in companionable silence, the Van der Veghels thundered about with cries of appreciation, a thousand inquiries and much photography. Lady Braceley, arm-in-arm with Kenneth and the reluctant Major, trailed and hobbled in the rear and could be heard faintly lamenting the rough going.

‘I’ve a low saturation point for sights,’ Sophy remarked. ‘Or rather for information about sights. I stop listening.’

‘Well,’ Grant said kindly, ‘at least you admit it.’

‘I’d have you know it doesn’t mean that I’m insensible to all this.’

‘All right. I didn’t suppose you were.’

‘On the contrary. I’m knocked dumb. Or nearly dumb,’ Sophy amended. ‘You may say: visually speechless.’

He looked at her with amusement. ‘I dare say you’re hungry,’ he offered.

‘And I dare say you’re right,’ she agreed in surprise. ‘Thirsty, anyway.’

‘Look, we’re settling for our tea.’

They had come to a terrain called the Belvedere and looked beyond the tops of a pine grove to the monstrous splendour of the Colosseum. Spires, roofs, gardens, an obelisk, insubstantial in the late afternoon haze, swam into the distance and dissolved against the Alban Hills.

Giovanni and his assistant, having found a place by a fallen column, spread rugs and cloths and opened hampers.

It was, as Sophy said, an exquisite snack: delicate little sandwiches of smoked salmon and caviare: Roman and Neapolitan pastries, fruit and a chilled white wine. There was also, surprisingly, whisky and soda. And tea for anybody who preferred it as Sophy herself did, iced with lemon, and very fragrant.

What a rum little lot we are, she thought indulgently. A light breath of air brought a stronger whiff of myrtle and pine needles with it and momentarily lifted her hair from her forehead. She found that Grant looked fixedly at her and she said hurriedly: ‘We none of us seem to be worrying about poor Mr Mailer, do we?’

He made a sharp movement of his hands. ‘No doubt our authoritative friend has coped,’ he said.

Major Sweet, having eaten very heartily and made smart work of two whiskies and soda, appeared to be in a mollified condition. He said: ‘Most extraordinary chap. My opinion.’ But lazily and without rancour. “Strordinary good tea,’ he added.

‘I think,’ Lady Braceley said, ‘we’re all getting along very nicely as we are—with Giovanni,’ and gave Giovanni a sufficiently lingering glance. ‘Although,’ she said, ‘it’s a pity that other gorgeous brute’s deserted us.’

‘What exactly,’ Kenneth asked restlessly, ‘is the programme for tonight? Cars at nine—for where? Where do we dine?’

‘At the Gioconda, sir,’ Giovanni said.

‘Good God!’ the Major ejaculated. As well he might. The Gioconda is the most exclusive as it is undoubtedly the most expensive restaurant in Rome.