Poor Zorzi would be driven from Murano and Venice, never to set foot again within the boundaries of the Republic; for Beroviero was a man of weight and influence, of whom Venice was proud.
Youth would be very sad if it counted time and labour as it is reckoned and valued by mature age.

Some day Zorzi would be no longer a mere paid helper, calling himself a servant when his humour was bitter, tending a fire on his knees and grinding coloured earths and salts in a mortar.

He had the understanding of the glorious art, and the true love of it, with the magic touch; he would make a name for himself in spite of the harsh Venetian law, and some day his master would be proud to call him son.
There would not be many months to wait.

Months or years, what mattered, since she loved him and was at last quite sure that he loved her?
To-day, that was enough.

She would go over to the glass-house and sit in the garden, by the rose he had planted, and now and then she would go into the close furnace room where he worked with her father, or Zorzi would come out for something; she should be near him, she should see his face and hear his quiet voice, and she would say to herself: He loves me, he loves me--as often as she chose, knowing that it was true.
Since she knew it, she was sure that she should see it in his face, that had hidden it from her so long.