On a table behind her a single rose hung over the edge of a
tall glass with a slender stem, almost the counterpart of the one in
which Contarini had drunk her health at midnight. Her father had given
it to her as it came from the annealing oven, still warm after long
hours of cooling with many others like it. She loved it for its grace
and lightness, and as for the rose, it was the one she had made Zorzi
give back to her yesterday. She meant to keep it in water till it faded,
and then she would press it between the first page and the binding of
her parchment missal. It would keep some of its faint scent, perhaps,
and if any one saw it, no one would ever guess whence it came.
It meant a great thing to her, for it had told her Zorzi's secret, which
he had kept so well. He should know hers some day, but not yet, and her
drooping lids could hide it if it ever came into her eyes. It was too
soon to let him know that she loved him. That was one reason for hiding
it, but she had another. If her father guessed that she loved the waif,
it would fare ill with him. She fancied she could see the old man's
fiery brown eyes and hear his angry voice. Poor Zorzi would be driven
from Murano and Venice, never to set foot again within the boundaries of
the Republic; for Beroviero was a man of weight and influence, of whom
Venice was proud.
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