Gemma was sitting on a garden-seat near the path, she was sorting a big basket full of cherries, picking out the ripest, and putting them on a dish. The sun was low—it was seven o’clock in the evening—and there was more purple than gold in the full slanting light with which it flooded the whole of Signora Roselli’s little garden. From time to time, faintly audibly, and as it were deliberately, the leaves rustled, and belated bees buzzed abruptly as they flew from one flower to the next, and somewhere a dove was cooing a never-changing, unceasing note. Gemma had on the same round hat in which she had driven to Soden. She peeped at Sanin from under its turned-down brim, and again bent over the basket. Sanin went up to Gemma, unconsciously making each step shorter, and … and … and nothing better could he find to say to her than to ask why was she sorting the cherries. Gemma was in no haste to reply. “These are riper,” she observed at last, “they will go into jam, and those are for tarts. You know the round sweet tarts we sell?” As she said those words, Gemma bent her head still lower, and her right hand with two cherries in her fingers was suspended in the air between the basket and the dish. “May I sit by you?” asked Sanin. “Yes.” Gemma moved a little along on the seat. Sanin placed himself beside her. “How am I to begin?” was his thought. But Gemma got him out of his difficulty. “You have fought a duel to-day,” she began eagerly, and she turned all her lovely, bashfully flushing face to him—and what depths of gratitude were shining in those eyes! “And you are so calm! I suppose for you danger does not exist?” “Oh, come! I have not been exposed to any danger. Everything went off very satisfactorily and inoffensively.” Gemma passed her finger to right and to left before her eyes … Also an Italian gesture. “No! no! don’t say that! You won’t deceive me! Pantaleone has told me everything!” “He’s a trustworthy witness! Did he compare me to the statue of the commander?” “His expressions may be ridiculous, but his feeling is not ridiculous, nor is what you have done to-day. And all that on my account … for me … I shall never forget it.” “I assure you, Fräulein Gemma …” “I shall never forget it,” she said deliberately; once more she looked intently at him, and turned away. He could now see her delicate pure profile, and it seemed to him that he had never seen anything like it, and had never known anything like what he was feeling at that instant. His soul was on fire. “And my promise!” flashed in among his thoughts. “Fräulein Gemma …” he began after a momentary hesitation. “What?” She did not turn to him, she went on sorting the cherries, carefully taking them by their stalks with her finger-tips, assiduously picking out the leaves…. But what a confiding caress could be heard in that one word, “What?” “Has your mother said nothing to you … about …” “About?” “About me?”