“Yes, he is in the court.” she answered in her gloomy way.
“Is something wrong with your mamma?” said Kennedy to Simonetta.
“Nothing.”
They went into the court and Giovanni Battista arose, very dignified, and bowed to Cæsar. The elder son and the two workmen in white blouses and paper caps were busy with water and wires, cleaning a plaster mould they had just emptied.
The mould was a big has-relief of the Way of the Cross. Giovanni Battista permitted himself various jocose remarks about the Way of the Cross, which his son and the other two workmen heard with great indifference; but while he was still emptying his store of anti-Christian irony, the voice of Signora Vittoria was heard, crying domineeringly:
“Giovanni Battista!”
“What is it?”
“That’s enough, that’s enough! I can hear you from here.”
“That’s my wife,” said Giovanni Battista, “she doesn’t like me to be lacking in respect for plaster saints.” “You are a pagan!” screamed the old woman. “You shall see, you shall see what will happen to you.”
“What do you expect to have happen to me, darling?”