of his memory again, peered about him for a
minute or two, and brought back nothing. 'I can't remembah the othah
fellahs' names,' he went on; 'they're all so much alike: all in _elli_,
don't yah know; but I recollect at the time they impressed me awfully.'

'No doubt,' I answered.

He tried to look through me, and failed. Then he plunged, like a noble
sportsman that he was, on a second fetch of memory. 'Ah--and Michael
Angelo,' he went on, quite proud of his treasure-trove. 'Sweet things,
Michael Angelo's!'

'Very sweet,' I admitted. 'So simple; so touching; so tender; so
domestic!'

I thought Elsie would explode; but she kept her countenance. The
pea-green young man gazed at me uneasily. He had half an idea by this
time that I was making game of him.

However, he fished up a name once more, and clutched at it. 'Savonarola,
too,' he adventured. 'I adore Savonarola. His pickchahs are beautiful.'

'And so rare!' Elsie murmured.

'Then there is Fra Diavolo?' I suggested, going one better. 'How do you
like Fra Diavolo?'

He seemed to have heard the name before, but still he hesitated.
'Ah--what did he paint?' he asked, with growing caution.

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.'

[Illustration: 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.'

His distrust increased. 'Now you're trying to make me commit myself,' he
drawled out. 'I remembah Torricelli--he's the fellah who used to paint
all his women crooked. But Chianti's a wine; I've often drunk it; and
Romano's--well, every fellah knows Rom