“Yes,” he answered.  “When I cannot bear it any longer, I will tell you, and you will help me.”

“Why not now?”

The little question might have been ruinous to all his resolution, if Zorzi had not been almost like a child in his simplicity—­or like a saint in his determination to be loyal.  For he thought it loyalty to be silent, not only for the sake of the promise he had given in return for his life, but in respect of his master also, who put such great trust in him.

“Pray do not press me with the question,” he said.  “You tempt me very much, and I do not wish to speak of what I feel.  Be my friend in real truth, if you can, and do not ask me to say what I shall ever after wish unsaid.  That will be the best friendship.”

Marietta looked across the garden thoughtfully, and suddenly a chilling doubt fell upon her heart.  She could not have been mistaken yesterday, she could not be deceived in him now; and yet, if he loved her as she believed, she had said all that a maiden could to show him that she would listen willingly.  She had said too much, and she felt ashamed and hurt, almost resentful.  He was not a boy.  If he loved her, he could find words to tell her so, and should have found them, for she had helped him to her utmost.  Suddenly, she almost hated him, for what his silence made her feel, and she told herself that she was glad he had not dared to speak, for she did not love him at all.  It was all a sickening mistake, it was all a miserable little dream; she wished that he would go away and leave her to herself.  Not that she should shed a single tear!  She was far too angry for that, but his presence, so near her, reminded her of what she had done.  He must have seen, all through their talk, that she was trying to make him tell his love, and there was nothing to tell.  Of course he would despise her.  That was natural, but she had a right to hate him for it, and she would, with all her heart!  Her thoughts all came together in a tumult of disgust and resentment.  If Zorzi did not go away presently, she would go away herself.  She was almost resolved to get up and leave the garden, when the door opened.

“Zorzi!” It was Beroviero’s voice.

Aristarchi already stood in the doorway taking leave of Beroviero with, many oily protestations of satisfaction in having made his acquaintance.  Zorzi went forward to accompany the Greek to the door.

“I shall never forget that I have had the honour of being received by the great artist himself,” said Aristarchi, who held his big cap in his hand and was bowing low on the threshold.

“The pleasure has been all on my side,” returned Beroviero courteously.

“On the contrary, quite on the contrary,” protested his guest, backing away and then turning to go.

Zorzi walked beside him, on his left.  As they reached the entrance to the corridor Aristarchi turned once more, and made an elaborate bow, sweeping the ground with his cap, for Beroviero had remained at the door till he should be out of sight.  He bent his head, making a gracious gesture with his hand, and went in as the Greek disappeared.  Zorzi followed the latter, showing him out.