“Maybe I shall need them, after all,” she told herself.
The recollection that her trump card had not been played gave back her hope of yet entering Casa Di Bello.
The presence of Signor Di Bello, alone and long of face, at the Three Gardens brought upon his head a rain of banter from a dozen boon comrades. When the storm of gibes and rib-tickling surmises as to the cause of his wifeless state had reached its height the form of the banker darkened the door. Signor Di Bello jumped to his feet, and, taking the middle of the smoky room, brandished his finger dramatically at the newcomer.
“There, signori!” he cried, bulging with fury, “there is the dog that barked away my bride! A meddler, a numskull! He comes from Satan knows where with a cock-and-bull tale about somebody—Heaven knows whom—somebody who is the husband of my promised bride. A simpleton of a priest swallows his story like a forkful of spaghetti, and, presto! my wedding is put off for a week! By the Egg of Columbus, a fine team of donkeys!”
“Infame! infame!” came from the men at the tables, which resounded with the blows of their horny fists.
Bridget would have been proud of her Tomato could she have seen him at this crucial moment. Fine was the scorn with which he looked from face to face, and, smiling in imperial contempt of the whole company, dropped into a chair.
“There is a proverb, signori,” he said, “which comes to me at this moment: Some men heave a sigh when the sun shows his eye.”
“Bah!” roared Signor Di Bello. “Did I not tell you, my friends, that his head is filled with polenta?” (corn-meal mush.)
“And yours has not even polenta in it!” retorted the banker, rising and clapping his hands close to Signor Di Bello’s face. “If it were not empty, do you know what you would do? You would thank me for what I have done to-day. Would you have me tell the name of this husband whom nobody knows, who comes from Satan knows where? Would you?”
“The name! The name!” from Signor Di Bello and the others.