On the other side of the table Alleyn thought: No doubt she’s very well able to take care of herself but I wouldn’t have thought her one of the easy-come easy-go sort. On the contrary. I hope Grant isn’t a predatory animal. He’s a god in her world and a romantic-looking, ravaged sort of god, at that. Just the job to fill in the Roman foreground. Twenty years her senior, probably. He’s made her blush again.

Major Sweet, at the head of the table, had ordered himself yet another cognac but nobody followed his example. The champagne bottles were upside down in the coolers and the coffee cups had been removed. Giovanni appeared, spoke to the waiter and retired with him, presumably to pay the bill. The maître-d’hôtel, Marco, swept masterfully down upon them and not for the first time inclined, smiled and murmured over Lady Braceley. She fished in her golden reticule and when he kissed her hand, left something in his own. He repeated this treatment with subtle modulations, on the Baroness, worked in a gay salute to Sophy, included the whole table in a comprehensive bow and swept away with the slightest possible oscillation of his hips.

‘Quite a dish, isn’t he?’ Kenneth said to his aunt.

‘Darling,’ she replied, ‘the things you say! Isn’t he too frightful, Major?’ She called up the table to Major Sweet, who was staring congestedly over the top of his brandy glass at Sophy.

‘What!’ he said. ‘Oh. Ghastly.’

Kenneth laughed shrilly. ‘When do we move?’ he asked at large. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘Now we are gay,’ cried the Baroness. ‘Now we dance and all is hip and nightlife. To the Cosmo, is it not?’

‘Ah-ha, ah-ha, to the Cosmo!’ the Baron echoed.

They beamed round the table.

‘In that case,’ Lady Braceley said, picking up her purse and gloves, ‘I’m for the ritirata.’

The waiter was there in a flash to drop her fur over her shoulders.

‘I too, I too,’ said the Baroness and Sophy followed them out.

The Major finished his brandy. ‘The Cosmo, eh?’ he said. ‘Trip a jolly old measure, what? Well, better make a move, I suppose—

‘No hurry,’ Kenneth said. ‘Auntie’s best official clocking in la ritirata is nineteen minutes and that was when she had a plane to catch.’

The Baron was in deep consultation about tipping with the Major and Grant. Their waiter stood near the door into the restaurant. Alleyn strolled over to him.

‘That was a most excellent dinner,’ he said and overtipped just enough to consolidate his follow-on. ‘I wonder if I may have a word with Signor Marco? I have a personal introduction to him which I would like to present. Here it is.’