“In any way,” Mailer murmured. “Really, in any way at all. I’m versatile.”

“Oh,” Barnaby said. “I’m very orthodox, you know. The largest Square,” he added and thought the addition brilliantly funny, “in Rome.”

“Then, if you will allow me—”

The proprietor was there with his bill. Barnaby thought that the little trattoria had become very quiet, but when he looked round he saw that all the patrons were still there and behaving quite normally. He had some difficulty in finding the right notes but Mr. Mailer helped him and Barnaby begged him to give a generous tip.

“Very good indeed,” Barnaby said to the proprietor, “I shall return.” They shook hands warmly.

And then Barnaby, with Mr. Mailer at his elbow, walked into narrow streets past glowing windows and pitch-dark entries, through groups of people who shouted and by-ways that were silent into what was, for him, an entirely different Rome.

Barnaby had no further encounter with Sebastian Mailer until the following spring, when he returned to Rome after seeing his book launched with much éclat in London. His Pensione Gallico could not take him for the first days, so he stayed at a small hotel not far from it in Old Rome.

On his second morning he went down to the foyer to ask about his mail, but finding a crowd of incoming tourists milling round the desk, sat down to wait on a chair just inside the entrance.

He opened his paper but did not read it, finding his attention sufficiently occupied by the tourists who had evidently arrived en masse: particularly by two persons who kept a little apart from their companions but seemed to be of the same party nevertheless.

They were a remarkable pair, both very tall and heavily built with high shoulders and a surprisingly light gait. He supposed them to be husband and wife but they were oddly alike, having perhaps developed a marital resemblance. Their faces were large, the wife’s being emphasized by a rounded jaw and the husband’s by a short chin-beard that left his mouth exposed. They both had full, prominent eyes. He was very attentive to her, holding her arm and occasionally her big hand in his own enormous one and looking into her face. He was dressed in blue cotton shirt, jacket and shorts. Her clothes, Barnaby thought, were probably very “good” though they sat but lumpishly on her ungainly person.

They were in some sort of difficulty and consulted a document without seeming to derive any consolation from it. There was a large map of Rome on the wall: they moved in front of it and searched it anxiously, exchanging baffled glances.

A fresh bevy of tourists moved between these people and Barnaby, and for perhaps two minutes hid them from him. Then a guide arrived and herded the tourists off exposing the strange pair again to Barnaby’s gaze.

They were no longer alone. Mr. Mailer was with them.

His back was turned to Barnaby but there was no doubt about who it was. He was dressed as he had been on that first morning in the Piazza Colonna and there was something about the cut of his jib that was unmistakable.

Barnaby felt an overwhelming disinclination to meet him again. His memory of the Roman night spent under Mr. Mailer’s ciceronage was blurred and confused but specific enough to give him an extremely uneasy impression of having gone much too far. He preferred not to recall it and he positively shuddered at the mere thought of a renewal. Barnaby was not a prig but he did draw a line.

He was about to get up and try a quick getaway through the revolving doors when Mailer made a half turn towards him. He jerked up his newspaper and hoped he had done so in time.

“This is a preposterous situation,” he thought behind his shield. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. It’s extraordinary. I’ve done nothing really to make me feel like this but in some inexplicable way I do feel—” He searched in his mind for a word and could only produce one that was palpably ridiculous: “contaminated.”

He couldn’t help rather wishing that there was a jalousie in his newspaper through which he could observe Mr. Mailer and the two strangers and he disliked himself for so wishing. It was as if any thought of Mailer involved a kind of furtiveness in himself, and since normally he was direct in his dealings, the reaction was disagreeable to him.

All the same he couldn’t resist moving his paper a fraction to one side so he could bring the group into his left eye’s field of vision.

There they were. Mailer’s back was still turned towards Barnaby. He was evidently talking with some emphasis and had engaged the rapt attention of the large couple. They gazed at him with the utmost deference. Suddenly both of them smiled.

A familiar smile. It took Barnaby a moment or two to place it and then he realized with quite a shock that it was the smile of the Etruscan terra-cottas in the Villa Giulia: the smile of Hermes and Apollo, the closed smile that sharpens the mouth like an arrowhead and — cruel, tranquil or worldly, whichever it may be — is always enigmatic. Intensely lively, it is as knowledgeable as the smile of the dead.

It faded on the mouths of the couple but didn’t quite vanish, so that now, thought Barnaby, they had become the Bride and Groom of the Villa Giulia sarcophagus, and really the man’s gently protective air furthered the resemblance. How very odd, Barnaby thought. Fascinated, he forgot about Sebastian Mailer and lowered his newspaper.

He hadn’t noticed that above the map in the wall there hung a tilted looking-glass. Some trick of light from the revolving doors flashed across it. He glanced up and there, again between the heads of lovers, was Mr. Mailer, looking straight into his eyes.

His reaction was indefensible. He got up quickly and left the hotel.

He couldn’t account for it. He walked round Navona telling himself how atrociously he had behaved, “Without the man I have just cut,” he reminded himself, “the crowning event of my career wouldn’t have happened. I would still be trying to re-write my most important book and very likely I would fail. I owe everything to him!” What on earth had moved him then, to behave atrociously? Was he so ashamed of that Roman night that he couldn’t bear to be reminded of it? He supposed it must be that but at the same time he knew that there had been a greater compulsion.

He disliked Mr. Mailer. He disliked him very much indeed. And in some incomprehensible fashion he was afraid of him.

He walked right round the great Piazza before he came to his decision. He would, if possible, undo the damage. He would go back to the hotel and if Mr. Mailer was no longer there he would seek him out at the trattoria where they had dined. Mailer was an habitué and his address might be known to the proprietor. “I’ll do that!” thought Barnaby.

He had never taken more distasteful action. As he entered by the revolving doors into the hotel foyer he found that all the tourists had gone but that Mr. Mailer was still in conference with the “Etruscan” couple.

He saw Barnaby at once and set his gaze on him without giving the smallest sign of recognition. He had been speaking to the “Etruscans” and he went on speaking to them but with his eyes fixed on Barnaby’s. Barnaby thought: “Now he’s cut me dead, and serve me bloody well right,” and he walked steadily towards them.

As he drew near he heard Mr. Mailer say:

“Rome is so bewildering, is it not? Even after many yisits? Perhaps I may be able to help you? A cicerone?”

“Mr. Mailer?” Barnaby heard himself say. “I wonder if you remember me. Barnaby Grant.”

“I remember you very well, Mr. Grant.”

Silence.

“Well,” he thought, “I’ll get on with it,” and said: “I saw your reflection just now in that glass. I can’t imagine why I didn’t know you at once and can only plead a chronic absence of mind. When I was half-way round Navona the penny dropped and I came back in the hope that you would still be here.” He turned to the “Etruscans.”