I stuffed him valiantly. 'Those charming angels, you know,' I answered. 'With the roses and the glories!'
'Oh, yaas; I recollect. All askew, aren't they; like this! I remembah them very well. But——' a doubt flitted across his brain, 'wasn't his name Fra Angelico?'
'His brother,' I replied, casting truth to the winds. 'They worked together, you must have heard. One did the saints; the other did the opposite. Division of labour, don't you see; Fra Angelico, Fra Diavolo.'
WASN'T FRA DIAVOLO ALSO A COMPOSAH?
He fingered his cigarette with a dubious hand, and wriggled his eye-glass tighter. 'Yaas, beautiful; beautiful! But——' growing suspicious apace, 'wasn't Fra Diavolo also a composah?'
'Of course,' I assented. 'In his off time, he composed. Those early Italians—so versatile, you see; so versatile!'
He had his doubts, but he suppressed them.
'And Torricelli,' I went on, with a side glance at Elsie, who was choking by this time. 'And Chianti, and Frittura, and Cinquevalli, and Giulio Romano.'