w with her bead work, while
Nella talked, and brushed, and moved about the room, making imaginary
small tasks in order to talk the more. But Marietta threaded the red and
blue beads and fastened them in patterns upon the piece of stuff she was
ornamenting, and when Nella looked at her every now and then, she seemed
quite calm and indifferent. There had always been something inscrutable
about her.

She was wondering why she had submitted to be betrothed to Contarini,
when she loved Zorzi; and the answer did not come. She could not
understand why it was that although she loved Zorzi with all her heart
she had been convinced that she hated him, during four long, miserable
days. Then, too, it was very strange that she should feel happy, that
she should know that she was really happy, her heart brimming over with
sunshine and joy, while Zorzi, whom she loved, was lying on that
uncomfortable bench in dreadful pain. It was true that when she thought
of his wound, the pain ran through her own limbs and made her move in
her seat. But the next moment she was perfectly happy again, and yet was
displeased with herself for it, as if it were not quite right.

Nella stood still at last, close to her, and spoke to her so directly
that she could not help hearing.

"My little lady," said the woman, "do not forget that the women are
coming early to-morrow morning to show you the stuffs which your father
has chosen for your wedding gown."

"Yes. I remember."

Marietta laid down her work in the little basket of beads and looked
away towards the window. Between the shutters she could just see one of
the scarlet flowers of the sweet geranium, waving in the sunlight. It
was true. The women were coming in the morning to begin the work. They
would measure her, and cut out patterns in buckram and fit them on her,
making her stand a long time. They would spread out silks and satins on
the bed and on the table, they would hold them up and make long
draperies with them, and make the light flash in the deep folds, and
they would tell her how beautiful she would be as a bride, and that her
skin was whiter than lilies and milk and snow, and her hair finer than
silk and richer than ropes of spun red gold. While they were saying
those things she would look very grave and indifferent, and nothing they
could show her would make her open her eyes wide; but her heart would
laugh long and sweetly, for she should be infinitely happy, though no
one would