"Who? Why, the old miser, Martina Dejas. She got up out of her bed last night, and went and banged on my Giovanna's door. She said she heard some one talking to her. Upon my soul, fancy such a thing! She has gone entirely mad; she always was half so."
"Ah!" was all that Costantino said.
"Listen, my soul," said Aunt Bachissia, lowering her voice. "Giovanna tells me that the old colt suspects——"
"What?" asked Costantino, raising his head quickly.
"Suspects that you and Giovanna—you understand? She has not said a word, the old maniac, but Giovanna has guessed that she has some idea in her head, and on that account——"
"I understand," said Costantino.
He did understand. Evidently Giovanna had taken this method of warning him that they would have to be prudent.
"And so, my soul," Aunt Bachissia went on, "for the present it will be as well for you to stop coming here—just so as not to arouse suspicions. I will go every once in a while to see you—for a chat, you know. Ah!" she gave a weary sigh, "you—yes, you are a man! Look at you, standing there now, as tall and handsome as a banner! When I think of that little freak of nature—Brontu Dejas—I declare, I wonder what on earth Giovanna could have been thinking of to—forget you. Ah, if she had only listened to me!"
Costantino, who had risen and was standing in the doorway, crimsoned with anger when he heard these outrageous lies being calmly offered for his acceptance.
"Hold your tongue," he began in a hoarse voice. But Aunt Bachissia was not listening; she was looking intently up at the white house; presently she whispered: "Look, my soul, we are being watched now. Giovanna is right. Do you see the old harpy peering at us? Oh! I could tear out her eyes!"