“Have you visited Italy, Mr. Barrington?” Bianchi asked, as if he were reading Stone’s mind.

“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t,” Stone replied. “I have a friend who has just returned from several years in Tuscany and speaks highly of it.”

“That would be Miss Buckminster, the painter, would it not?”

“Yes,” Stone replied, surprised.

“I knew her work when she lived in New York,” Bianchi said. “I thought she had great promise, though I felt she needed maturing as an artist. I understand that her recent work is much elevated in its perceptions.”

“She is an excellent painter,” Stone said.

“And you would know, would you not? Coming from a mother who was such an illustrious artist.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Perhaps I inherited an appreciation of good painting from my mother, but none of her talent, I fear.”

“I have tried on a couple of occasions to buy a Matilda Stone, but I have always been outbid.”

Stone was astonished that Bianchi had ever been outbid for anything. “You must keep trying,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” Bianchi replied. “I will not long be denied.”

Stone’s empty plate was removed and replaced with a main course of osso bucco.

“We are dining in the fashion of Milano this evening,” Bianchi said. “Milanese dishes are among my favorites.”

“Everything is delicious,” Stone said.

“I will tell my sister you said so. She does all the cooking for the house.”

“Please give her my compliments.”

“You will have an opportunity to do so yourself,” Bianchi said.

Suddenly, Stone felt an unaccustomed sensation. Something was climbing up his right calf. He froze, his wineglass in midair.

Bianchi stared at him. “Is the wine not to your satisfaction?”

Stone took a sip and swallowed hard. “It’s superb,” he said. He now realized that what was climbing his calf was a foot belonging to Dolce Bianchi.

“It is grown in my own vineyard in Veneto,” Eduardo Bianchi said.

“Absolutely superb,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Dolce’s stockinged toes had reached the top of his sock and were drawing it down around his ankle. He felt as though he was being undressed by an expert.

“It is an Amerone,” Bianchi was saying. “The grapes are dried in the sun before they are pressed. It concentrates the flavor.”

“Just wonderful,” Stone said, trying not to giggle. She was tickling his leg now. Carefully, he drew his foot away from hers. From a corner of his eyes, he saw her make a moue.

“Dolce,” Bianchi said to his daughter, “you are unusually quiet; you must entertain our guest.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, sliding a glance in Stone’s direction.

When they had finished dining, Bianchi stood. “All of you, please return to the little sitting room, where Pietro will serve coffee.” They all rose and filed out. Bianchi turned to Stone. “Mr. Barrington, perhaps you will join me for a glass of something?”