‘But I thought they all spoke Italian.’

‘They do, but the regions have their dialects which are almost like different languages.’

‘How different?’ he wanted to know.

‘Well, if you wanted to say, “Strike while the iron’s hot” in Italian, it would be, “Battere il ferro quando ’e caldo”. If you were Venetian you’d say, “Bati fin chel fero xe caldo”, and if you came from Naples you’d say, “Vatte ’o ’fierro quann’ ’e ccavero”.’

‘That’s great!’ Mark said, thrilled. ‘All those different ways to say one thing.’

‘But what’s the point?’ Justin asked. ‘Why don’t they all just speak Italian?’

‘Because a regional dialect springs from the people,’ Evie explained. ‘It’s part of their history, their personality. It’s their heritage. Don’t you care about your heritage?’

His reaction startled her. His face seemed to close, like the door of a tomb, she later thought. After a moment’s black silence he said, ‘I just think one language is more efficient.’

‘Of course it’s more efficient,’ she conceded. ‘But who wants to be efficient all the time? Sometimes it’s more fun to be colourful.’

‘I wouldn’t get far running a business on that theory.’

‘The Italians aren’t a businesslike people, thank goodness,’ she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘They’re delightful, and full of life and music. All those things matter too. Who wants to be efficient all the time?’

‘I do,’ he said simply.

Evie and Mark exchanged glances. Justin saw them but said nothing.

‘Will you send me postcards from Italy?’ Mark asked wistfully.

‘Lots and lots of them, from everywhere.’

He began bombarding her with questions which she answered willingly. Justin seemed content to sit there and listen, except once when he said, ‘Take a break from talking, Mark, and eat something.’

His tone was pleasant enough and Mark stopped to take a few mouthfuls. Evie took advantage of the moment to look around the garden, and saw a dog walking towards them, followed by five puppies, who seemed about six weeks old.