He looks around the room. “I’m astonished at the fact that there are so many bare breasts on display.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Have you become a prude, Misha? Say it isn’t so.”

“No, just a realist. The women in these pictures seem to wander through life, getting their tits out at the slightest opportunity. Going to the market—thwap. Attending an execution—thwap. Dinnertime—out come the girls.” He gestures to a painting behind us. “Even in that one showing Diana at the hunt, she’s got her tits out when she really should invest in a good sports bra or she’ll have back problems in later life.”

I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes. I put a stern look on my face as we pause in front of the huge picture of Samson and Delilah painted by Rubens. “Well, what about this one? What do you see?”

“What do you see?” he says cautiously. “You know so much more about this than me, Charlie.”

I roll my eyes at him before turning my gaze to the picture. “I see Delilah watching Samson sleep with his head in her lap. She has her hand on him and looks like she maybe feels regret for cutting his hair, but she can’t express it because of the other man standing over them. It’s beautiful. Look at the colours of her dress and the glow of his skin.”

“Oh,” he says faintly, tilting his head to one side and studying the picture in a puzzled fashion. “Oh, right.”

“What do you see, Misha? I can’t wait for this,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “It looks like a threesome that’s gone drastically wrong.”

I can’t stop the laugh this time, and it comes out much too loudly. Several people look disapprovingly at me. I grab his arm and tow him out of the room.

“Okay, let’s try another one.” I position him in front of the painting of the execution of Lady Jane Grey. “What do you see when you look at this?” I demand.

“Really, Charlie? This is like a date with Andrew Graham-Dixon.” He looks at my mop of hair tied up in a lopsided bun. “Only he has better hair.”

I gasp and pinch him. “You wound me, Misha.” I wink at him. “But not enough to divert my attention from the art. Nice try, but what do you see?”

He sighs and gazes at the huge painting showing the poor Nine Days’ Queen about to lay her head on the block, while her ladies-in-waiting sob, and the axeman stares.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t really like this,” he finally says.

“Why?” I ask, slightly excited. Maybe he’s been struck by the terrible pathos of Lady Jane’s situation.