Then he introduced himself. He was a director of
the Banca d'ltalia. And was I not the gentleman who had recently been to
Orvinio? I remembered.
"The last time I was there," I said, "was about a month ago. I fancy we
had some conversation in the motor up from Mandela."
"That is so. And now, however disagreeable it may be, I feel myself
obliged to perform a patriotic duty. This is war-time. I would ask you
to be so good as to accompany us to the nearest police-station."
"Which is not far off," I replied. "There is one up the next street on
our right."
We walked there, all four of us, without saying another word. "What have
I been doing?" I wondered. Then we climbed upstairs.
Here, at a well-lighted table in a rather stuffy room, sat a delegato or
commissario - I forget which - surrounded, despite the lateness of the
hour, by one or two subordinates. He was of middle age, and not
prepossessing. He looked as if he could make himself unpleasant, though
his face was not of that actively vicious - or actively stupid: the terms
are interconvertible - kind. While scanning his countenance, during those
few moments, sundry thoughts flitted through my mind.
These then, I said to myself - these are the functionaries, whether
executive or administrative, whether Italian or English or Chinese, whom
a man is supposed to respect.
