She acknowledged them with a nod that managed to combine respect for their aristocratic status with contempt for the male sex, sat down and took out her knitting.

‘I’m afraid there’s no news yet,’ Guido told her gently.

He looked up as the ward door opened and the doctor emerged. He was an elderly man and had been the count’s friend for years. His grave expression could mean only one thing, and their hearts sank.

The doctor pronounced. ‘Get the silly old fool out of here and stop wasting my time.’

‘But-his heart attack-?’ Guido protested.

‘Heart attack, my foot! Indigestion! Liza, you shouldn’t let him eat prawns in butter.’

Liza glared. ‘Much notice he takes of me,’ she snapped.

‘Can we see him now?’ Guido asked.

A roar from within answered him. In his prime Count Francesco had been known as The Lion of Venice, and now that he was in his seventies nothing much had changed.

The three young men entered their uncle’s room and stood regarding him wryly. He was sitting up in bed, his face framed by his white hair, his blue eyes gleaming.

‘Gave you a fright, didn’t I?’ he bawled.

‘Enough of a fright to bring me all the way from Rome and Leo from Tuscany,’ Marco remarked. ‘All because you’ve been stuffing yourself.’

‘Don’t talk to the head of the family like that,’ Francesco growled. ‘And blame Liza. Her cooking is irresistible.’

‘So you have to gobble it like a greedy schoolboy,’ Marco observed, not noticeably intimidated by addressing the head of the family. ‘Uncle, when are you going to act your age?’

‘I didn’t get to be seventy-two by acting my age!’ Francesco remarked with perfect truth. He pointed at Marco. ‘When you’re seventy-two you’ll be a dried-up stick without a heart.’

Marco shrugged.

The old man indicated Leo. ‘When you’re seventy-two you’ll be more of a country bumpkin than you are already.’