IV + 

Gian-Luca still lived with Fabio and Teresa, still slept in Olga’s old bedroom. He had had it repainted and papered a bright yellow, so that now there remained not even the scars as witnesses to what had once been. He could well have afforded to take a room nearer Piccadilly and the Doric, but the people among whom he had been brought up never left home except to get married, and not always then, for the family tie is a ten-ton chain to the Latin. No feelings of affection or duty, however, kept Gian-Luca at home; he remained where he was from a sense of habit⁠—he was like that now, a creature of habit, after nearly seven years at the Doric. Young as he was, he was slightly pedantic, with a little crop of cut-and-dried ideas about life. He read much in his spare time, believing in culture, and had quite a good knowledge of all sorts of books, English as well as Italian. Perhaps the fact that he had so few friends had driven him back on books. + 

He was vain in a harmless, painstaking way, and would fold his clothes neatly every night. His trousers were stretched in a smart walnut press, his ties suspended from a tape in his wardrobe, his jackets from carefully selected hangers, and his boots and shoes always well treed. Apart from the Doric, his one ruling passion, he enjoyed his books, he admired astuteness, especially in matters connected with his business, and he found recreation in women⁠—he was kinder to his books than he was to his women, perhaps because they cost him more. For Gian-Luca understood the value of money even as old Teresa understood it, even as Nerone and Rocca understood it, and Millo, the Lord of the Doric. + 

He was now in a position to buy all Doria’s works, and he ordered each new volume as soon as it was published. These were the books that he loved above all others, and he kept them in a special little bookcase by themselves. A rebel among poets was Ugo Doria; a firebrand, an earthquake, a disaster. And then suddenly, a saint, a peak of pure whiteness, a lake in the heart of the mountains. And this latter was the mood in which Gian-Luca liked him best; when he would feel that he was reading something more than Ugo Doria, when Gian-Luca⁠—who did not believe in a soul⁠—would know moments of joy and complete contentment; moments when the Doric and Millo and food and money and success and even himself would seem just nothing at all. Whenever he was feeling particularly lonely, in spite of his astuteness and ability, he would take down the volume that contained his favorite poem, the immortal “Gioia della Luce.” And sometimes, not often it is true, but sometimes, would come visions of wide, cool places; and of shadows, green because of their trees, and of all sorts of simple things. Then Gian-Luca would begin to grow younger and younger, but happier far than when he was a child; and perhaps he would go all the way out to Putney on his next free evening to visit the Librarian. For there he was always a welcome guest⁠—not because he was successful but because he was himself. He would wander about among the old books, sniffing in their queer, musty smell. + 

“You ought to have been a librarian, Gian-Luca,” his friend would say, beaming at him. + 

But at that Gian-Luca would shake his head slowly: “Ma no, I am very well content as I am. Books are for sometimes, my work is for always. I have chosen the safer part.” + 

“I wonder,” the Librarian would murmur softly. “I very much wonder, Gian-Luca.” + 

They were excellent friends whenever they met, which naturally could not be often, and each Christmas Gian-Luca would send a large hamper to the redbrick villa in Putney. He would buy its contents from Fabio and Teresa, paying just as a stranger might have done. Teresa took the money as a matter of course, and she thanked Gian-Luca gravely, politely, much as she might have thanked a stranger. However, there were times now when she talked to her grandson, consulting him about her business. She was full of innumerable new ideas for the glorification of the Casa Boselli. Gian-Luca would listen and advise and quote Millo, his methods, his rules at the Doric. + 

“Si, si,” she would say, as she nodded with approval. “I am glad to know what he feels about that⁠—I am sure he is pleased with our macaroni factory.” + 

So now at last they had something in common, a ground upon which they could meet; the Casa Boselli, the Doric and Millo; Millo, the Doric, the Casa Boselli⁠—and Gian-Luca, looking at her, would feel no resentment; indeed, he would think her a rather splendid figure with her hard eyes and clever, calculating brain that was more like a man’s than a woman’s. + 

No good telling Teresa that one sometimes felt lonely; she would only have stared and stared. “Nonna, I feel lonely!” The childishness of it, for the smartest headwaiter at the Doric. For that was what he was, their smartest headwaiter⁠—he had no doubt at all about that. + 

And Teresa knew it too: “You do well, Gian-Luca, I always knew you would do well.” + 

He would think: “One cannot have everything, it seems⁠—and I have a great deal already.” Aloud he would say: “We all prosper, Nonna; we all work hard and we prosper.” And she would reply: “We work hard to grow rich. Never forget that your money, Gian-Luca, is the best friend you have, apart from yourself.” + 