Most certainly. What else?
You tell me, Mr Collins.
Smiling, I would say. Because he understands the response. This statue was seen by everyone, Miss Skinner. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker and Cosimo I. Maybe it would have been less shocking, more acceptable, had it been placed in a museum. But it was commissioned for a civic square. This man knew what he was doing. A sculpture with no fixed viewpoint so we can walk around it, be part of the horror, part of the action, part of the dance. He knows the great dilemma he is presenting, Miss Skinner. He’s showing us what’s in us.
Mr Collins lit a cigarette and beckoned the waiter for two more drinks. Evelyn didn’t protest.
He said, The Church doesn’t have a language for the variations of our humanness. We need to look at Freud for that. Psychoanalysis is the way forward, Miss Skinner. Have you read The Interpretation of Dreams?
I have not, Mr Collins.
I think you would find it fascinating. One day, the Church will lose its hold on society and what a society we shall be. He looked at Evelyn and cocked his head. I think maybe you and I are rather similar, Miss Skinner.
Evelyn drank her vermouth and wondered if he meant a socialist.
May I? said Evelyn, reaching for a cigarette.
You certainly may, and Mr Collins struck a match.
It was her first cigarette and it made her light-headed and full of insights.
Today a cigarette and tomorrow the vote! she said.
How very daring of you, said Mr Collins. He lifted his glass. And what does life hold for Miss Skinner on her return to England?
She shall continue to work for her aunt at the gallery in Cork Street.
It seems to me, said Mr Collins, looking down at her sketch of the statue, that her father passed on a good deal of talent. Maybe there’s another avenue to walk down?
I am mediocre, Mr Collins. My father has been and continues to be my greatest supporter but the talent, the resilience, isn’t with me. And I don’t grieve that loss because it has freed me. I’ve seen my father parry the blows— But your father’s successful!
Not in his eyes. He’s not Cézanne. All artists are tortured by all they’re not and by art that’s not theirs. It’s lonely, Mr Collins. But I think I could be a memorable teacher.
Memorable? You’re giving yourself away.
Who doesn’t want to be remembered?
I, for one.
Evelyn finished her drink. I don’t believe you, she said.
They walked across to Neptune’s Fountain and stopped behind the white god.
Mr Collins said, Marvellous chiappe.
Evelyn raised her eyebrows in query.
Buttocks, Miss Skinner.
They are quite the engine!
Mr Collins laughed. Evelyn blushed. The vermouth had made her witty.
Across the square, cabs manoeuvred back and forth. Horses ate in repose, freed from the bright red blankets they wore on their backs. The usual movement of English tourists, oblivious to life around them, looking for answers in their guidebooks.
They wandered back through the Piazzale degli Uffizi, along the lungarno to the pensione. The light was yellow – a late-summer burst – and a sleepy vigil crowned the air. Mr Collins offered his arm and Evelyn took it.
You seem so sure of your life, he said.
I am.
Marriage? Children?
Just because one can, doesn’t mean one should, Mr Collins.
He nodded.
She had never made a truer statement in her life. She felt she was wearing Miss Everly’s metaphorical trousers.
They stopped as the pensione came into sight.
Shall we go into the Simi strategically? asked Mr Collins. Me then you? In case of gossip.
Let’s go in together and cause a little, shall we? said Evelyn, and they took the stairs, and passed reception and walked through the sudden turn of heads.
A couple of evenings later, English stew was back on the dinner menu, much to the delight of the Luggs.
God brought us all together at this table, said Reverend Hyndesight, practising his pulpit voice.
And the Gotthard Railway, said Mr Collins quietly. Mr Collins was attacking a grey piece of meat that he suspected was horse.
Dominicans or Franciscans, Miss Skinner? said the reverend.
Oh, Franciscans, without a doubt, said Evelyn. Saint Francis was a gentle soul. Full of anguish, so sincere. The Franciscans fought heresy with love and I, for one, am an admirer of love.
（Livia was in her sight line.）
Hear hear, said the reverend.
And of all the Catholic saints in the Middle Ages, he was the one who suggested the idea of nature as God. La Creazione, she said and she drank her wine. Domini canes also means hounds of the Lord. That’s where they get their name from. I always found it rather unsettling.