On a table behind her a single rose hung over the edge of a tall glass with a slender stem, almost the counterpart of the one in which Contarini had drunk her health at midnight.

Her father had given it to her as it came from the annealing oven, still warm after long hours of cooling with many others like it.

She loved it for its grace and lightness, and as for the rose, it was the one she had made Zorzi give back to her yesterday.

She meant to keep it in water till it faded, and then she would press it between the first page and the binding of her parchment missal.

It would keep some of its faint scent, perhaps, and if any one saw it, no one would ever guess whence it came.
It meant a great thing to her, for it had told her Zorzi's secret, which he had kept so well.