'Not yet.'
'I am dumb as any fish,' and he blinked his eyes obsequiously and mysteriously. 'Impassioned? That I understand. But of what kind? Grateful? Imploring?'
'The last.'
The poet drew his brows together with an air of grave solicitude.
'Wedded?'
'A maid.'
'Good. But I shall need the name.'
'What on earth matters the name?'
'Can't do imploring without the name.'
'Madonna Lucrezia.—You have nothing ready?'