Lamberti's similes lacked sequence, but not character.
"The Romans," observed Guido, "began with the egg and ended with the apple. I have an idea that we are going to do the same thing at dinner, and that there will be nothing between. But we can smoke between the courses."
"Yes," answered Lamberti, who had not heard a word. "I daresay."
Guido looked at him again, rather furtively. Lamberti never drank and had iron nerves, but he was visibly disturbed. He was what people vaguely call "not quite himself."
Guido went to the door of his bedroom.
"Where are you going?" asked Lamberti, sharply.
"I am going to wash my hands before dinner," Guido answered with a smile. "Do you want to wash yours?"
"No, thank you. I have just dressed."
He turned his back and went to the open window as Guido left the room. In a few seconds his cigar had gone out again, and he was leaning on the sill with both hands, staring at the twilight sky in the west. The colours had all faded away to the almost neutral tint of straw-tempered steel.
The outline of the Janiculum stood out sharp and black in an uneven line. Below, there were the scattered lights of Trastevere, the flowing river, and the silence of the deserted Via Giulia. Lamberti looked steadily out, biting his extinguished cigar, and his features contracted as if he were in pain.