It was the
first hint of his aims respecting her that Gonzaga had ever dared let
fall, and the condition in which it left her boded ill for his ultimate
success. Her anger he could have borne, had he beheld it, for he would
have laid it to the score of the tone he had taken with her. But her
incredulity that he could indeed have dared to mean that which her senses
told her he had meant, would have shown him how hopeless was his case and
how affronted, how outraged in soul she had been left by this moment of
passionate self-revealing. He would have understood then that in her
eyes he never had been, was never like to be, aught but a servant--and
one, hereafter, that, deeming presumptuous, she would keep at greater
distance.
But he, dreaming little of this as he paced his chamber, smiled at his
thoughts, which flowed with ready optimism. He had been a fool to give
way so soon, perhaps. The season was not yet; the fruit was not ripe
enough for plucking; still, what should it signify that he had given the
tree a slight premonitory shake? A little premature, perhaps, but it
would predispose the fruit to fall. He bethought him of her never-
varying kindness to him, her fond gentleness, and he lacked the wit to
see that this was no more than the natural sweetness that flowed from her
as freely as flows the perfume from the flower--because Nature has so
fashioned it, and not because Messer Gonzaga likes the smell. Lacking
that wit, he went in blissful confidence to bed, and smiled himself
softly to his sleep.
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