“No, you thief!”
“For the love of the bright Saints, who is it?”
“Bah! You know.”
“I swear I do not. It was a picture of the Presidentessa that I sent to the sculptor. Maria! Has Armando made the wrong woman? Where is it?”
“Here.”
In a jiffy the furniture atop of it was removed and the boxed marble set on the ground. When the paper had been torn off and the face of Juno stood revealed in the morning’s first flush Bertino was on hands and knees before it.
“Holy Madonna of Grace!” he shrieked, and got up covering his eyes and turning away. “It is too much, too much!”
“Who is it?” asked Bridget and Domenico in concert.
“My wife!”
“Arrah, now I know the mug iv it!” cried Bridget in triumph. “Sure that pug nose has been dancin’ in me brain like a nightmare since iver I seen it in the bank. She’s noane other than the singer I seen in the Caffè of the Bella Siciliana the day ye was writin’ at the table. Do ye moind?”