He could think connectedly now, he had been able to talk; had
it been possible for him to stand, he might even have gone on for a time
with the preparations for the next experiment. Yet he felt an
instinctive certainty that he was to be lame for life.
He was not thinking of the experiments just then; he could think of
nothing but Marietta. Four or five days had passed since he had talked
with her in the garden, and she was now formally promised to Jacopo
Contarini. He wondered why she had come with Nella, and he remembered
her earnest offer of friendship. She meant to show him that she was
still in earnest, he supposed. It had been perfect happiness to feel her
cool young hand on his forehead, to press it in his own. No one could
take that from him, as long as he lived. He remembered it through the
horrible pain it had soothed, and it was better than the touch of an
angel, for it was the touch of a loving woman. But he did not know that,
and be fancied that if she had ever guessed that he loved her, she
would not have come to him now. She would feel that the mere thought in
his heart was an offence. And besides, she was to marry Contarini, and
she was not of the kind that would promise to marry one man and yet
encourage love in another.
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