four o’clock
Never would she grow really old , never surely would the primal fires within her die down into the gray ashes that litter so many of the hearths by which age sits , a bleak , uncomely shadow . And Peppina was on the island , a girl from the stews of Naples ; not wicked , perhaps , rather wronged , injured by life -- nevertheless , the niece of that horror of the Galleria . He thought of Vere and shuddered . Next day towards four o'clock the Marchesino strolled into Artois ' room , with a peculiarly impudent look of knowledge upon his face . `` Buon giorno , Caro Emilio , '' he said . `` Are you busy ? '' `` Not specially . ''