They went in and joined the small knot of people at the counter. The proprietor, wearing a dirty vest and a white chef’s cap, was engaged in loud conversation with some of his customers as he manipulated a large flat tray out of the oven. On this was a massive square of sizzling pizza, a square yard or more in extent, which he then proceeded to cut into manageable squares with a set of gardening shears. These squares were tipped onto pieces of grease-proof paper and handed out to the customers, including Angus and Antonia, together with a small glass of raw, red wine.

‘Perfect,’ said Angus, as he started upon the pizza.

‘Oh, I could die and go to heaven,’ said Antonia. ‘And look, he’s making coffee. We can have coffee after we have had this wine. Oh, this is so perfect, Angus. I could faint with excitement, I really could.’

Angus frowned. ‘Not really, I hope.’

Antonia sighed. ‘I’m overcome, Angus. I’m quite overcome.’

He tried to sound matter-of-fact. Really, Antonia was gushing rather a lot. ‘It is fun, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I think Domenica should come here when we get back to the queue.’

They finished the pizza and wine and signalled to the man in the vest for coffee.

‘I have never seen the Uffizi,’ said Antonia as they waited. ‘You know, I have been dreaming about it. Last night, for instance, I found myself there. It was a great revelation, and I am convinced that when I go in today I shall feel as if I have already visited it.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. And do you know, I am sure that I shall cry. I have been reading a book called Pictures and Tears. It’s all about how people can burst into tears when they are confronted with great art. They cry. Have you ever cried on seeing a painting, Angus?’

Angus shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve been stirred, of course, but I don’t think I’ve cried.’

‘That is because we live in a time when artists have eschewed tears. Art today is a matter of intellect. Artists want us to engage intellectually with what they have to say. They do not want us to feel a sudden surge of emotion. How different it was …’ Antonia looked about her, and gestured in such a way as to embrace not only the café but all Florence. ‘How different it was in Renaissance times. The artists who walked on these very pavements wanted us to be uplifted, to experience intense emotion in our encounter with beauty. That’s what they wanted. Lippi, Ghirlandaio, Botticelli – they wanted us to cry, Angus.’