“The Feast of Sunday.”
“Ah, what a wedding it shall be! The finest ever seen in Mulberry. Listen, mia diletta, and I will give you my idea. In an open carriage, with white and purple plumes in the horses’ heads, we shall go to the Church of San Patrizio. Shall it be San Patrizio or San Loretto? For me San Patrizio is most agreeable.”
“For me too,” said Juno. “At San Loretto one finds too many Sicilian pigs.”
“You are right. In the afternoon, then, you wait in the restaurant of Santa Lucia, all ready in your white gown and orange blossoms. Ah, how magnificent you will——”
“Bah!” she interrupted. “White gown and orange blossoms! Where do you think I am to get them? Let me tell you something, signore: I am poor.”
“By the chains of Colombo, then, I am not!” he exclaimed jubilantly. “You shall have them, and the finest in all Grand Street. Here, see what kind of a man your promised spouse is!”
From an inside pocket of his waistcoat he drew a large calfskin wallet bound about many times with stout cord, and took from the plenteous store therein one ten-dollar note. This he handed to Juno with a proud “There my angel.”
“Thank you,” she said faintly, turning over the bill.
“And yellow boots you shall have,” he went on; “just like the ones Signorina Crotelli had last Sunday. I saw them when she and Pietro went up the church steps. Which do you like best, yellow or white boots?”
“I think yellow boots for a bride are very sympathetic,” she answered, folding the bank note and tying it in a corner of her handkerchief. And without a moment’s delay she set off for Grand Street, where the flower of Mulberry does its shopping.