Still the lovers floated up and down the Riva,
their feet on clouds, their heads in the heavens.
Never a day did he miss, and always with a wave
of her hand to me as they passed: down to Malamocco
on Sundays with another girl as chaperon, or over to
Mestre by boat for the festa, coming home in the
moonlight, the tip of his cigarette alone lighting her
face.

One morning--the lovers had only been waiting
for their month's pay--Luigi came sailing down the
canal to my lodgings, his gondola in gala attire,--
bunches of flowers tied at each corner of the tenda;
a mass of blossoms in the lamp socket; he himself
in his best white suit, a new red sash around his
waist--his own colors--and off we went to San
Rosario up the Giudecca. And the Borodinis turned
out in great force, and so did all the other 'inis, and
'olas, and 'ninos--dozens of them--and in came
Loretta, so beautiful that everybody held his breath;
and we all gathered about the altar, and good
Father Garola stepped down and took their hands;
and two candles were lighted and a little bell rang;
and then somebody signed a book--somebody with
the bearing of a prince--Borodini, I think--and then
Luigi, his rich, sunburned face and throat in contrast
with his white shirt, moved up and affixed his name
to the register; and then a door opened on the side
and they all went out into the sunlight.