He looked at me gravely for a moment.
“That might be an explanation,” he answered deliberately, “but frankly, if I were asked, I should give a very different one.”
“And that would be?” came, sharp and compelling, the voice of Madonna.
He turned to her, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “Why, since you ask me,” he said, “I should hazard the opinion that Lazzaro, here, was of considerable assistance to the Lord Giovanni in the penning of those verses with which he delighted us all—and you, Madonna, I believe, particularly.”
Madonna Paola crimsoned, and her eyes fell. The others looked at us with inquiring glances—at her, at Filippo and at me. With a fresh laugh Filippo turned to me.
“Confess now, am I not right?” he asked good-humouredly.
“Magnificent,” I murmured in tones of protest, “ask yourself the question. Was it a likely thing that the Lord Giovanni would enlist the services of his jester in such a task?”
“Give me a straightforward answer,” he insisted. “Am I right or wrong?”
“I am giving you more than a straightforward answer, my lord,” I still evaded him, and more boldly now. “I am setting you on the high-road to solve the matter for yourself by an appeal to your own good sense and reason. Was it in the least likely, I repeat, that the Lord Giovanni would seek the services of his Fool to aid him write the verses in honour of the lady of his heart?”
With a burst of mocking laughter, Filippo smote the table a blow of his clenched hand.