“Weren’t you?  Word of honour?  Are you sure?  How do you know?  Have you any definite recollection that you weren’t?  Can you clearly recall the period in question, and then, reviewing it in detail, positively attest that you were dead?  For there’s no third choice.  A person must either be alive or dead.  And how, if you weren’t alive, how ever did it come to pass that there should be a perfect portrait of you from Giovanni’s brush in the Convent of Saint Mark at Florence?  Your grave little white face, and your wise little big eyes, and your eager little inquisitive profile, and your curls flowing about your shoulders, and your pinafore that’s so like a peplum,—­there they all are, precisely as I see them before me now.  And how was Giovanni able to do them if you weren’t alive?  Perhaps you were pre-mortally alive in Heaven?  Giovanni’s cell, as is well known, had a window that opened straight into Heaven.  Perhaps he saw you through that window, and painted you without your knowing it.  The name they give your portrait, by-the-by, would rather seem to confirm that theory.  What do you think they call it?  They call it an un angiolo.  I’ve got a copy of it in England.  When you come to London to visit the Queen I’ll show it to you.”

Annunziata gave her flowing curls a toss.

“The form of the young woman which you have seen in the garden—­” she began anew.

“Ah,” said John, “observe how differently the big fish and the little fish will be affected by the same bait.”

“When you first spoke of it,” said she, “I thought you had seen a holy apparition.”

“Yes,” said he.  “That was because I couched my communication in language designedly misleading.  I employed the terminology of ghost-lore.  I said ‘haunted’ and ‘appear,’ and things like that.  And you were very properly and naturally deceived.  I confidently expected that you would be.  No, it is not given to world-stained and world-worn old men like me to see holy apparitions.”

“Old men?  You are not an old man,” said Annunziata.

“Oh?  Not?  What am I, then?” said John.

“You are a middle-aged man,” said she.

“Thank you, Golden Tongue,” said he, with a bow.

“And you are sure that it was merely a real person?” she pursued.

“No,” said he.  “I am too profoundly imbued with the basic principles of metaphysics ever to be sure of the objective reality of phenomena.  I can only swear to my impression.  My impression was and is that it was merely a real person.”

“Then,” said Annunziata, with decision, “it must be the person who is visiting the Signora Brandi.”

“The Signora Brandi?” repeated John.  “What a nice name!  Who is the Signora Brandi?”

“She is an Austrian,” said Annunziata.

“Oh—?” said John.

“She lives in the pavilion beyond the clock-tower,” said Annunziata.

“I wasn’t aware,” said John, “that the pavilion beyond the clock-tower was inhabited.  I wasn’t aware that any part of this castle was inhabited, except the porter’s lodge and the part that we inhabit.  Why have I been left till now in this state of outer darkness?”