A number of its windows overlooked the courtyard all a criss-cross of cords which, issuing from the caretaker’s cubby-hole, were used to wield the clappers of a dozen bells attached to the railings on the various storeys, in readiness to summon a maid, or the lady of the house. There was a slip of a terrace jammed between their dining-room and the wall of the house opposite, a loftier building at one time totally blank and windowless at this level, but now pierced by French windows at which it was the custom of a certain Stately Elder to appear; to wit, Avvocato Ardizzone. Avvocato Ardizzone who, in spite of his flowery eloquence and the billowing folds of his peignoir, and his tendency to flaunt his gown in court, and his forefinger levelled point-blank at his adversary, and – the decisive stroke, thought he – his portrait in oils occupying half a wall in the Great Hall of the Bar Association, in which he was depicted with that celebrated forefinger (though here, from noblesse oblige, directed at the ceiling), his other hand resting on a highly-coloured Fascist symbol, the so-called Lictoral Fasces… despite these merits and high deserts, and the despatch of hundreds of boxes of oranges to influential people in Rome, and a plaintive, ranting, suppliant, peppery correspondence with ministers’ secretaries… had never secured a place in the Senate.
