Since she knew it, she was sure that she should see it in his face, that
had hidden it from her so long. There would be glances when he thought
she was not watching him, his colour would come and go, as yesterday,
and he would do her some little service, now and then, in which the
sweet truth, against his will, should tell itself to her again and
again. It would be a delicious and ever-remembered day, each minute a
pearl, each hour a chaplet of jewels, from golden sunrise to golden
sunset, all perfect through and through.

There were so many little things she could watch in him, now that she
knew the truth, things that had long meant nothing and would mean
volumes to-day. She would watch him, and then call him suddenly and see
him try to hide the little gladness he would feel as he turned to her;
and when they were alone a moment, she would ask him whether he had
remembered to forget Jacopo Contarini's name; and some day, but not for
a long time yet, she would drop a rose again, and she would turn as he
picked it up, but she would not make him give it back to her, and in
that way he should know that she loved him. She must not think of that,
for it was too soon, yet she could almost see his face as it would be
when he knew.

Yesterday her father had talked again of her marriage. A whole month had
passed since he had even alluded to it, but this time he had spoken of
it as a certainty; and she had opened her eyes wide in surprise. She did
not believe that it was to be. How could she marry a man she did not
love? How could she love any man but Zorzi? They might show her twenty
Venetian patricians, that she might choose among them. Meanwhile she
would show her indifference. Nothing was easier than to put on an
inscrutable expression which betrayed nothing, but which, as she knew,