He pulled himself together. ‘Certainly not,’ he said with an attempt at dignity. ‘You’re a modern young woman with a wide knowledge of social conditions. And I wish I’d died before I opened my mouth.’

She would have forgiven him much for calling her a modern young woman. But no forgiveness was necessary. He delighted her.

The next moment he delighted her even more by putting his foot in it again, eyeing her identification badge and saying, ‘Besides, since you work here, you must meet all kinds of lady in the hotel-’

‘Not that kind of lady,’ Helen said virtuously. ‘The Elroy doesn’t allow them.’

This time he just covered his eyes in an attitude of despair. Helen regarded him with pleasure. He had reddened with confusion, and it made him look much younger than she guessed he was. Late twenties, she reckoned. Thirty, tops.

He uncovered his eyes, pulled himself together, and looked more closely at her badge. Something he saw there seemed to strike him, for he glanced at her in surprise. But before he could speak she refilled his glass and brought him some more to eat, trying to cover his confusion.

‘Are you going to be connected with the new Italian Restaurant?’ he asked, indicated a glossy brochure.

‘I don’t think so. I’m just here because Mr Dacre thinks of me as Italian, and it’s so unfair.’

‘Why is it unfair?’

‘Because it’s not true. I have an Italian name, which means that my parents are Italian, but I’m not. I can’t convince anybody of that-including them. I’m an American. I was born in Manhattan, I grew up in Manhattan, I’ve never set foot in Italy in my life. I have a career and my own apartment, but Mamma still says, “When are you going to settle down as a good wife to a nice Italian boy?”’

‘And what do you say?’ he asked, fascinated.

‘I say there’s no such thing as a nice Italian boy. They’re all like Poppa.’