“Governo ladro!” he exclaimed. “What has happened?”
“I am going to Italy.”
“To Italy! What for?”
“It is twelve years since I heard the chimes of San Lorenzo.”
“Yes; I think so,” he said, going behind the counter, shaving off a piece of Roman cheese and tossing it into his mouth. “When do you set off?”
“As soon as possible.”
“There is a ship for Genoa to-morrow,” he said eagerly.
Looking him in the eye, she asked, “Are you betrothed to the Napolitana?”
“Satan the crocodile!” he roared, pounding the counter. “This is too much! Do you count me a simpleton?”
“Promise me, caro fratello, that you will not take a wife until I return.”