Carolina gave back only a silent nod and a closer pressure of the lips, and he made off to the Santa Lucia, crowing to himself over the timely bite of his pleasantry. Hour after hour she had been at that window watching for Bertino, ready to spring to the door and drive him away should he appear too soon. She was determined that the play should not be spoiled by the untimely entrance of her star actor. His cue, as agreed upon, was the exit of Signor Di Bello, but the fear had haunted her that his itching _vendetta_ might make him forget the book. That danger was past now, and before his uncle had gone a block, Bertino was at the door. She bundled him upstairs to her sanctum, and, turning the key, left him looking out blankly on the graveyard. “In a little while I shall call you,” she said, after explaining gravely that she locked him in that his uncle might be kept out. Then she descended to the street door and waved her hand, a signal that brought a push-cart out of a near-by alley, with Armando and the banker at its shafts. Of course, their load was the Last Lady, but no eye could see her face, for Bridget had given her best and only bed coverlet to veil it. No easy task to lug the weighty dame upstairs, but they managed it without mischance, while Carolina stood by imploring care, and all with an ado of deepest secrecy. At length the bust was set up in the back room of the second floor. In this room the bride and groom were to wait before going down to the parlour for the ceremony. A dressing case near the window answered for a pedestal. In the bright light that fell upon it the snowy features of Juno showed bold to the eye, while the mirror rendered back in softer tone her sturdy neck and shoulders. With a spotless sheet Carolina covered the bust, and with the others left the room and locked the door. Repeated jangling of the bell and a low drone in the parlour told of arriving guests. Marianna had been cast for the part of door-opener and welcomer to the first families. Armando, in the best attire he could muster, had only a meditative rôle. Thus far he had done naught but sit in the parlour and exchange confident glances with Marianna whenever she ushered in a distinguished Calabriano, Siciliano, or Napolitano. A cab bearing Signor Di Bello and Juno drew up betimes, and word was passed to Carolina. Instantly she unlocked the door that shut in Bertino, and bade him be ready for her summons. Then she called Marianna and Armando to the room where the bust was, leaving Angelica to let in the bridal pair. Up the staircase they rustled, Juno first, her skirts held free of the yellow boots, and Signor Di Bello smiling after her with a quivering bunch of muslin roses. “They are here,” said the guests, craning their necks and whispering. “No fiasco this time.” “This way, signorina,” piped Carolina, with a spidery smile, stepping aside and waving her fly into the web.