"Sit for my portrait between the years 1387 and 1455,--how could I?"
scoffed Annunziata.

"Why? What was to prevent you?" innocently questioned he.

"_Ma come!_ I was not yet alive," said she.

John looked at her with startled eyes, and spoke with animation.

"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.