"Neither do I." And then, sure of the shadow and the propitiousness of the moment, he kissed her. Kitty would never have forgiven him if he hadn't. "I've bought you a cricket to take home."
"A cricket?"
"Yes. These Florentines consider crickets very lucky, that is, the first you find in May. You put him in a little wire cage and feed him lettuce, and if he sings, why, there's no doubt about the good luck. Funny little codger! Looks like a parson in a frockcoat and an old-fashioned stock."
"Good luck always," said Kitty, brushing his hand with her lips.
They were gone, and Hillard was alone. He missed them all sorely, Merrihew with his cheery laugh, Kitty with her bright eyes, and O'Mally with his harmless drolleries. And no letter. It would not be true to say that he waited patiently, that he was resigned; he waited because he must wait. There had been a great shock, and she required time to recover her poise. Was there a woman in all the world like her? No. She was well worth waiting for. And so he would wait. She was free now; but would that really matter? There was no barrier; but could she love him? And might not her letter, when it did come, be a valedictory?
Daily he searched the newspapers for news of Giovanni; but to all appearances Giovanni had vanished, as indeed he had, for ever out of Hillard's sight and knowledge.
The letter came one week after the departure of his friends. It was post-marked Venice. And the riddle was solved.