An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window.
There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man--rather a
Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a
glistening of gold among his ringlets--gazing down upon her like
a being that hovered in mid air. Scarcely knowing what he did,
Giovanni threw down the bouquet which he had hitherto held in his
hand.

"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear
them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti."

"Thanks, signor," replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that
came forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful
expression half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your
gift, and would fain recompense it with this precious purple
flower; but if I toss it into the air it will not reach you. So
Signor Guasconti must even content himself with my thanks."

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly
ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to
respond to a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through
the garden. But few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni,
when she was on the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured
portal, that his beautiful bouquet was already beginning to
wither in her grasp. It was an idle thought; there could be no
possibility of distinguishing a faded flower from a fresh one at
so great a distance.

For many days after this incident the young man avoided the
window that looked into Dr. Rappaccini's garden, as if something