“To-morrow,” Armando said, “I am going to Jamaica with Signor Tomato. The signorina could accompany us. Then we shall see poor Bertino and—my poor marble.”
“Perhaps it shall not prove such a poor marble,” she said, with a look and nodding of the head that suggested some future act of gratitude for the helpful service to her cause which the bust had rendered. “When shall you set off for Jamaica?”
“As soon as Signor Tomato has sold out his dandelions.”
He promised to inform her directly that urgent purpose should be accomplished and attend her on the journey to Jamaica. But where was Signor Di Bello? A shuddering dread showed itself in Carolina’s face as she asked the question, which no one could answer. Had he gone elsewhere for a priest, and would he return after all with the singer and that mob of Calabriani, Siciliani, and Napolitani pigs?
At that particular moment her brother was quaffing a glass of his favourite barbera in the Caffè of the Three Gardens, whither he had driven to buttress his nerve after setting down Juno at her lodgings. The ordeal of facing Carolina and explaining matters was one that he shrank from meeting without due consideration and the aid of vinous fortitude.
“Courage, my angel,” he had said, as he handed Juno from the carriage. “On the Feast of Sunday next all will be well. Father Nicodemo will find that he has been the plaything of idiots, and you shall go with me to Casa Di Bello.”
Lifting her purple skirts clear of the sidewalk, and taking care that they did not brush the shabby staircase, Juno climbed to the door of Luigia the Garlic Woman. To the astonished landlady she observed calmly:
“Signora, I shall need the room for another week.”
“But how is this? You go to church to be married, and you return without a husband. Body of an elephant! Brides did not so in my day.”
Without making reply Juno went to her little dark room and, removing the wedding finery, folded the dress with great care, put it in the trunk, with the yellow boots on top, and closed the lid.