Annunziata’s eyes grew big, compassionating him, and, at the same time, bespeaking a lively curiosity.

“Poor Prospero,” she gently murmured.  “What was it?” on tip-toe she demanded.

“Well,” he said, “when I rose, to go for my morning swim, I made an elaborate toilet, because I hoped to meet a certain person whom, for reasons connected with my dignity, I wished to impress.  But it was love’s labour lost.  The certain person is an ornament of the uncertain sex, and didn’t turn up.  So, to console myself, I came here.”

Annunziata looked round the room again.  “What is there here that can console you?”

“These,” said John.  His hand swept the pictured walls.

“The paintings?” said she, following his gesture.  “How can they console you?”

“They’re so well painted,” said he, fondly studying the soft-coloured canvases.  “Besides, these ladies are dead.  I like dead ladies.”

Annunziata looked critically at the pictures, and then at him with solemn meaning.  “They are very pretty—­but they are not dead,” she pronounced in her deepest voice.

“Not dead?” echoed John, astonished.  “Aren’t they?”

“No,” said she, with a slow shake of the head.

“Dear me,” said he.  “And, when they’re alone here and no one’s looking, do you think they come down from their frames and dance?  It must be a sight worth seeing.”

“No,” said Annunziata.  “These are only their pictures.  They cannot come down from their frames.  But the ladies themselves are not dead.  Some of them are still in Purgatory, perhaps.  We should pray for them.”  She made, in parenthesis as it were, a pious sign of the Cross.  “Some are perhaps already in Heaven.  We should ask their prayers.  And others are perhaps in Hell,” she pursued, inexorable theologian that she was.  “But none of them is dead.  No one is dead.  There’s no such thing as being dead.”

“But then,” puzzled John, “what is it that people mean when they talk of Death?”

“I will tell you,” said Annunziata, her eyes heavy with thought.  “Listen, and I will tell you.”  She seated herself on the big round ottoman, and raised her face to his.  “Have you ever been at a pantomime?” she asked.

“Yes,” said John, wondering what could possibly be coming.

“Have you been at the pantomime,” she continued earnestly, “when there was what they call a transformation-scene?”

“Yes,” said John.

“Well,” said she, “last winter I was taken to the pantomime at Bergamo, and I saw a transformation-scene.  You ask me, what is Death?  It is exactly like a transformation-scene.  At the pantomime the scene was just like the world.  There were trees, and houses, and people, common people, like any one.  Then suddenly click!  Oh, it was wonderful.  Everything was changed.  The trees had leaves of gold and silver, and the houses were like fairy palaces, and there were strange lights,