Still, there was nothing much in that.

It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the ordinary evening parade; and, remembering that the day was a _fiesta_, she thought less of it.
But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to feel some slight apprehension.

He had promised to be back for a dinner that was long since due--a repast she had herself prepared, more sumptuous than common on account of the saint's day.

This was it that elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories.
After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the _sola de comida_, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines decantered, fruits and flowers on the epergne--all but the dishes that waited serving till Valerian should show himself.
To look on something besides--a portrait that hung upon the wall, underneath her own.

It was a small thing--a mere photographic carte-de-visite.