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.
Away in the room under the Lion's Tower, the Count of Aquila, too, paced his chamber ere he sought his couch, and in his pacing caught sight of something that arrested his attention, and provoked a smile.

In a corner, among his harness which Lanciotto had piled there, his shield threw back the light, displaying the Sforza lion quartered with the Aquila eagle.
"Did my sweet Gonzaga get a glimpse of that he would have no further need to pry into my parentage," he mused.