morrow!

He feasted his eyes on Gemma's note. The long, elegant tail of the
letter G, the first letter of her name, which stood at the bottom of
the sheet, reminded him of her lovely fingers, her hand.... He thought
that he had not once touched that hand with his lips.... 'Italian
women,' he mused, 'in spite of what's said of them, are modest and
severe.... And Gemma above all! Queen ... goddess ... pure, virginal
marble....'

'But the time will come; and it is not far off....' There was that
night in Frankfort one happy man.... He slept; but he might have said
of himself in the words of the poet:

'I sleep ... but my watchful heart sleeps not.'

And it fluttered as lightly as a butterfly flutters his wings, as he
stoops over the flowers in the summer sunshine.




XXVII


At five o'clock Sanin woke up, at six he was dressed, at half-past
six he was walking up and down the public garden within sight of the
little arbour which Gemma had mentioned in her note. It was a still,
warm, grey morning. It sometimes seemed as though it were beginning
to rain; but the outstretched hand felt nothing, and only looking at