"I let my keeper loose for the evening. He has gone to see the sculptures of a certain Mr Ewing."

"William Ewing," Gulielmi said. "He has a certain small talent. His figures are recognisably figures, one may say so much."

"I envy," John panted, climbing the marble stairway to the second floor of Number 26, "any man who can carve marble. To climb it," seeing old Mr Gibson come from the top floor, candle-lighted by his French valet, "is for me, in my present state," having just visited Mr O'Hara up there, "work enough. Your servant, sir."

"Evening, evening," old Mr Gibson growled, passing, candle proceeding.

"Easy, man, easy," said Clark, trying to pull John to a standstill by his coattail. "There's all the time in the world." Then he emended: "I' the worrrruld."

John led his visitors into the parlour. Light was fading. He looked panting for candles. Panting less, he sat with Clark and Gulielmi, their shadow selves sitting huge upon the walls. "Wine," he said.

"Tell me where the wine is," said Gulielmi, getting up. "Ah, I see it, I think."

"Your English is astonishingly good, signore."

"Not astonishingly. My maternal grandfather came from Manchester and was a staunch Stuart man. Disgusted and, indeed, disgraced by the failure of the rebellion of 1745, he exiled himself to Italy. He died recently, very old, in an apartment of the Castello on the lake of Bracciano. He was still brooding on the lost Stuart cause, execrating the puddingy Hanoverians, as he called them. My mother, his daughter, keeps my English alive, as does my work as a translator. Our friend Dr Clark has, I fear, little sympathy for the Pretenders. I, though an Anglo-Italian, am a better Scot than he." He smiled though, pouring the cheap golden Roman table wine, all that John and Severn could afford.

"A question of faith," Clark said. "My family is allied to the Knoxes, meaning the great Knox who preached against Mary our Jezebel mistress. As for the Hanoverians, I'll serve them. As for puddingy, your bonny prince was puddingy enough."