general impartial kiss.

Then he started up and walked away, not looking round till he was ten
yards from her, when he just turned and gave a parting beck. Tessa was
looking after him, but he could see that she was making no signs of
distress. It was enough for Tito if she did not cry while he was
present. The softness of his nature required that all sorrow should be
hidden away from him.

"I wonder when Romola will kiss my cheek in that way?" thought Tito, as
he walked along. It seemed a tiresome distance now, and he almost
wished he had not been so soft-hearted, or so tempted to linger in the
shade. No other excuse was needed to Bardo and Romola than saying
simply that he had been unexpectedly hindered; he felt confident their
proud delicacy would inquire no farther. He lost no time in getting to
Ognissanti, and hastily taking some food there, he crossed the Arno by
the Ponte alia Carraja, and made his way as directly as possible towards
the Via de' Bardi.

But it was the hour when all the world who meant to be in particularly
good time to see the Corso were returning from the Borghi, or villages
just outside the gates, where they had dined and reposed themselves; and
the thoroughfares leading to the bridges were of course the issues
towards which the stream of sightseers tended. Just as Tito reached the
Ponte Vecchio and the entrance of the Via de' Bardi, he was suddenly
urged back towards the angle of the intersecting streets. A company on
horseback, coming from the Via Guicciardini, and turning up the Via de'
Bardi, had compelled the foot-passengers to recede hurriedly. Tito had
been walking, as his manner was, with the thumb of his right-hand
resting in his belt; and as he was thus forced to pause, and was looking
carelessly at the passing cavaliers, he felt a very thin cold hand laid
on his. He started round, and saw the Dominican friar whose upturned
face had so struck him in the morning. Seen closer, the face looked
more evidently worn by sickness and not by age; and again it brought
some strong but indefinite reminiscences to Tito.

"Pardon me, but--from your face and your ring,"--said the friar, in a
faint voice, "is not your name Titomelema?"

"Yes," said Tito, also speaking faintly, doubly jarred by the cold touch
and the mystery. He was not apprehensive or timid through his
imagination, but through his sensations and perceptions he could easily
be made to shrink and turn pale like a maiden