“Very well. Now I will tell you the rest: In the upper city there are apartments, small and fine, that we could take. You know Giacomo Goldoni, the cornetist at La Scala? Well, he lives in a place like that, he and his wife, just like Americans.” “Where is it?” “In One Hundred and Eleventh Street of the East. Do you know where that is? Well, you can find it. To-day you shall go and choose the place. Here is money, the first that you have received from your husband. Do you think I have been fool enough to give the money I brought from Italy to the pothouses? Not I. When I need money I go to the Bank of Risparmio. See what kind of a husband you have! Neither you nor any one else knows how much I have in the bank. I will tell _you_. Before drawing this five yesterday I had fifty-three dollars.” Juno expressed her contempt in a glance, but she closed her fingers on the greenback. “Very well. I go to look for the apartment. This evening we meet. Where? At the Caffè of the Beautiful Sicilian?” “No, no; not there!” said Bertino. “You must not come to Mulberry.” “Why?” she demanded, eying him closely. He made the only answer that could have satisfied her: “It is no place for such a signora as you.” They appointed another meeting place--one that lay beyond the zone of Signor Di Bello’s nightly revels, and with a wave of the hand Juno took leave of her husband. He watched her proudly as her stately figure moved toward the Bowery. She carried her head with the dignity of the ladies she had seen driving in the Chiaja of Naples on a sunny afternoon. Bertino returned to the shop in Paradise Park. As he picked his way through the swarms of children on the sidewalk he thought of his uncle sitting in the sunlight, all unwary that the prize he coveted had passed to another. And the elation of the conqueror gave a spring to his step, and a swagger, until he turned a corner and beheld the sign of the Wooden Bunch. Then misgiving filled his soul and restored his trudging pace, his peasant gait--misgiving that the vanquished one might exact an accounting. “Soul of a lobster!” cried Di Bello, springing from his chair, when the young man appeared at the door. “Where the crocodile have you been? Animal! To keep me waiting like this, and a grand game of _bastoni_ to be played at the Three Gardens. By the Dragon, you are going too far!” He flung out of the shop, not waiting to hear Bertino’s lame excuse. That evening, after the shop was closed, Bertino and Juno visited a large instalment house in the Bowery and made their selection of furniture. “We shall not need much,” he said, mindful of his balance in the bank, “for in a little while we shall live in Casa Di Bello.” “Casa Di Bello!” sneered Juno. “Do you think I am a fool?”