turn up?"

And the worst of it was that at any moment, for aught he knew,
she might turn up. That was the worst of it, and the best. It
kept hope alive, only to torture hope. It encouraged him to
wait, to watch, to expect; to linger in his garden, gazing
hungry-eyed up the lawns of Ventirose, striving to pierce the
foliage that embowered the castle; to wander the country
round-about, scanning every vista, scrutinising every shape and
shadow, a tweed-clad Gastibelza. At any moment, indeed, she
might turn up; but the days passed--the hypocritic days--and
she did not turn up.


Marietta, the kind soul, noticing his despondency, sought in
divers artless ways to cheer him.

One evening she burst into his sitting-room with the effect of
a small explosion, excitement in every line of her brown old
face and wiry little figure.

"The fireflies! The fireflies, Signorino!" she cried, with
strenuous gestures.

"What fireflies?" asked he, with phlegm.

"It is the feast of St. Dominic. The fireflies have arrived.
They arrive every year on the feast of St. Dominic. They are
the beads of his rosary. They are St. Dominic's Aves. There
are thousands of them. Come, Signorino, Come and see."