OF great import was the picture Bridget saw in the Caffè of the Beautiful Sicilian. It was Bertino’s afternoon off from the shop, and he had planned the meeting with Juno the preceding day while his uncle fought again the battles of Garibaldi before an audience of admiring comrades at the Three Gardens. The little _tête-à-tête_ meant that a crisis had suddenly developed in the green fever of the grocery clerk. His temperature had reached a degree where he swore _vendetta_. Yes, to-day she must choose between life with him and death with his rival. It all came of the Snail Boiler’s false report that Signor Di Bello had betrothed himself to the Superb. But Juno eased matters by coming to the tryst with consent on her lips. She would be his wife. It was not Bertino’s hot breathings of revenge, however, that had melted the handsome iceberg. Her change of poise was due to a pair of hard knocks that life had playfully dealt her the night before. The first came from the _impresario_, who told her, with tearful voice, that the affairs of the theatre had gone so badly of late that he was obliged--how much against his will Iddio knew--to dispense with her services. The second blow came after the performance, when she was eating _polenta_ and birds with Signor Di Bello. She had broached the subject of a wedding ring, only to have him dash her hopes with a roar of laughter that shook the _caffè_. The rich husband failing and her stage career closed, she decided to tide over present difficulties by accepting Bertino’s offer of a situation as wife. Though he had promised her a home in Casa Di Bello, she was too shrewd not to perceive that he would find it a promise hard to make good. But there was another prize whereon she had set her purpose. She was madly addicted to the photograph habit. The only genuine emotion of which her nature seemed capable was the one of delight she evinced when beholding a picture of herself in some new pose. In Naples a good part of her earnings as bottle-washer in a wine house had gone for portraits; and the passion still clinging to her, she had begun to mortgage her salary at the theatre to a Mulberry photographer. In two days she had posed three times, and brought each set of the tintypes to the grocery to show them to Bertino. At sight of them he rolled his eyes, clasped his hands, and exclaimed: “Ah, how beautiful! How sympathetic!” “It would make a fine bust, _neh_?” she would add, but to this Bertino always returned a decisive no. Once she showed him an old solar print that was taken in Naples. It portrayed her in bare shoulders, with a lace mantle over her head and eyes looking soulfully at the moon. This was her favourite. “In America,” she declared, “they could not make a _ritratto_ like that.” But with all her pictures there remained a gnawing in the stomach of her vanity--a hunger that would not be allayed since the moment that he told her about the bust. She wanted to see herself in marble.