"I had forgotten, Stelio, that I was to take you to the closed house."
Like one lost in a desert, she stood there, helpless, under the gray sky.
"It seemed to me that we were to go somewhere else. But we are already here. 'In time'!"
She appeared to him now as she had in that memorable night, when she had said "Do not be cruel, Stelio!" Clothed in her sweet, tender soul she stood there, so easy to kill, to destroy, to immolate in a bloodless sacrifice.
"Come away—let us go," he said, trying to lead her with him. "Let us go somewhere else."
"I cannot."
"Let us go home—let us go to your house; we will light a fire, the first fire of October. Let me pass this evening with you, Foscarina. It will rain soon. It would be so sweet to sit in your room and talk, or be silent, hand-in-hand. Come! Let us go."
He would have liked to take her in his arms, to nurse her, soothe her, charm away her sadness. The sweetness of his own words augmented his tenderness. Of all her lovable person, he loved most fondly the delicate little lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes to her temples, the little purple veins that made her eyelids look like violets, the curve of her cheeks, the pointed chin, and all that seemed touched by the finger of Autumn, every shadow that overspread that passionate face.
"Foscarina! Foscarina!"