Domenica and Angus arrived at the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital three hours after Antonia had been taken away in her ambulance, its siren echoing through the narrow Florentine streets. The delay was deliberate and was not indicative of a lack of concern on their part. There was no point, Domenica suggested, in arriving contemporaneously with the patient: the doctors would need to make their admission examination and it would not help them to have anxious friends tugging at their clinical sleeves. So they continued with their visit to the Uffizi, taking in if not everything they had hoped to see, then at least some portion of it.

At the hospital they were ushered into a small, sparsely furnished waiting room outside the office of the clinical director. A secretary attended to them, offering them a glass of water and a small plate of biscotti while they waited.

‘Such courteous people,’ said Domenica as the secretary left the room. ‘Can you imagine the National Health Service offering anybody biscotti?’

‘Alas, I cannot,’ said Angus, helping himself to one of the small, brittle biscuits. He examined the biscuit carefully, as if looking for something. ‘This reminds me of Proust’s madeleine cake. Perhaps that’s why they keep them in a psychiatric institution – to promote Proustian reflections that might, in turn, aid diagnosis.’

‘Highly unlikely,’ said Domenica.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside, followed by the entry into the room of a tall man in a white coat.

‘Please excuse my tardiness,’ said the doctor. ‘I am Professor Sergio Novelletto. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.’

They both stood up to shake the doctor’s hand. As Domenica took his hand, he drew hers up to his lips and kissed it in an elaborate display of formal manners. Then he invited them to sit.

‘I have been at the bedside of your poor friend,’ he said, looking by turn at Angus and Domenica. ‘It is a classic case of a crisis brought on by excessive exposure to art and to …’ he looked out of the window at the Florentine skyline, ‘and to these antique and beautiful stones. We call this condition Stendhal Syndrome, as you may be aware. Indeed it is here in this very institution that the pioneering work on this condition was done. My distinguished colleague, Professor Graziella Magherini, had the honour of naming this condition. She is the author of the standard work on the subject, La Sindrome di Stendhal: Il malessere del viaggiatore di fronte alla grandezza dell’arte. So we are well placed to treat the crises that this unfortunate condition brings about.’

‘We have heard of it,’ said Angus.