Andrea followed her
intently with his eyes; her every movement, every attitude sent a
delicious thrill through him, as if each one of them had some special
significance, were a form of individual expression. Thus she passed down
the succession of steps and terraces, appearing and disappearing, now
completely hidden by the rose-bushes, now only her head or her rounded
bust visible above them. Sometimes the thickly interlaced boughs hid her
for several minutes, then, where the bushes were thinner, the colour of
her dress would show through them and the pale straw of her hat would
catch the sunlight. The nearer she came the more slowly she walked,
loitering among the verdant shrubs, stopping to gaze at the cypresses,
stooping to gather a handful of fallen leaves. From the last terrace but
one, she waved her hand to Andrea standing waiting for her at the foot
of the steps, and threw down to him the leaves she had gathered, which
first rose fluttering in the air like a cloud of butterflies and then
floated down--now fast, now slow,--noiseless as snowflakes on the
stones.
'Well?' she asked, leaning over the balustrade, 'what have you got for
me?'
Andrea bent his knee to the step and lifted his clasped hands.
'Nothing!' he was obliged to confess. 'I implore you to forgive me;
but, this morning, you and the sun together filled the whole world for
me with sweetness and light.
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