'Good heavens, my dear!' Mrs. Eustace appealed to Mr. Wilder. 'What are the laws in this dreadful country? Don't banns or something have to be published three weeks before the ceremony can take place?' Mr. Wilder rose hastily. 'Yes, yes, dear lady. It's impossible; don't consider any such catastrophe for a moment. Come, Constance, I really think we ought to be going.--Er, you see, Mrs. Eustace, you can't believe--that is, don't let anything Gustavo says trouble you. With all respect for his many fine qualities, he has not Jerry's regard for truth. And don't bother any more about the boy; he will turn up in a day or so. He may have written some letters of explanation that you haven't got. These foreign mails----' He edged toward the gate. Constance followed him and then turned back. 'We're on our way to the jail,' she said, 'to visit our donkey-driver, who has managed to get himself arrested. While we're there we can make inquiries if you like; it's barely possible that they might have got hold of Jerry on some false charge or other. These foreign jails----' 'Constance!' said Nannie reproachfully. 'Oh, my dear, I was only joking; of course it's impossible. Good-bye.' She nodded and laughed and ran after her father. CHAPTER XVIII If one must go to jail at all one could scarcely choose a more entertaining jail than that of Valedolmo. It occupies a structure which was once a palace; and its cells, planned for other purposes, are spacious. But its most gratifying feature, to one forcibly removed from social intercourse, is its outlook. The windows command the Piazza Garibaldi, which is the social centre of the town; it contains the village post, the fountain, the tobacco shop, the washing-trough, and the two rival cafes, the 'Independenza' and the 'Liberta.' The piazza is always dirty and noisy--that goes without saying--but on Wednesday morning at nine o'clock, it is peculiarly dirty and noisy. Wednesday is Valedolmo's market day, and the square is so cluttered with booths and hucksters and anxious buyers, that the peaceable pedestrian can scarcely wedge his way through. The noise moreover is deafening; above the cries of vendors and buyers rises a shriller chorus of bleating kids and squealing pigs and braying donkeys. Mr. Wilder, red in the face and short of temper, pushed through the crowd with little ceremony, prodding on the right with his umbrella, on the left with his fan, and using his elbows vigorously. Constance, serenely cool, followed in his wake, nodding here and there to a chance acquaintance, smiling on every one; the spectacle to her held always fresh interest. An image vendor close at her elbow insisted that she should buy a Madonna and Bambina for fifty centesimi, or at least a San Giuseppe for twenty-five. To her father's disgust she bought them both, and presented them to two wide-eyed children who in bashful fascination were dogging their footsteps.