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 one's coat-sleeve,
122