"She lives in Florence, sire."
"And her name?"
"Signora Lisa della Gioconda."
"Her husband? It matters not."
"Dead these ten years."
"And children?"
"A boy. Born shortly after the husband's death," he added, after a slight pause. "Shall we proceed to the turret? The light changes fast at sunset."
"Presently, presently. The portrait must be mine. The original—We shall see—we shall see."
"Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is unfinished."
"Unfinished?" He stared at it anew. "Impossible. It is perfect."