She is standing with a group of younger people, mostly architects. It’s drizzling ; the air is warm. The men and women are standing in the courtyard of a villa. Their open umbrellas and sweeping, unbuttoned raincoats lend them an air of cosmopolitan elegance. The daylight around the group is mild. Light from above shines through a soft gray ceiling of clouds that could be interpreted as a thick layer of fog. It transforms the minute raindrops into particles of light. The landscape is filled with gentle radiance.The faces of the men and women standing there seem serene. With unhurried, almost casual nonchalance, they take in the stately manor, the courtyard, the outhouses, the open wings of the wrought-iron gate. Occasionally someone glances at the hilly countryside. Mist rises. The cobblestones in the courtyard, the leaves on the trees, the grasses on the meadow glisten. The meandering gaze seeks the way to the villa Rotonda of Andrea Palladio, which is supposed to be nearby. The scene has become a lasting image in her memory. She has written about it.