h! it is you--it is perfect!" said Romola, looking with moist joyful
eyes at the miniature Bacchus, with his purple clusters. "And I am
Ariadne, and you are crowning me! Yes, it is true, Tito; you have
crowned my poor life."

They held each other's hands while she spoke, and both looked at their
imaged selves. But the reality was far more beautiful; she all
lily-white and golden, and he with his dark glowing beauty above the
purple red-bordered tunic.

"And it was our good strange Piero who painted it?" said Romola. "Did
you put it into his head to paint me as Antigone, that he might have my
likeness for this?"

"No, it was he who made my getting leave for him to paint you and your
father, a condition of his doing this for me."

"Ah! I see now what it was you gave up your precious ring for. I
perceived you had some cunning plan to give me pleasure."

Tito did not blench. Romola's little illusions about himself had long
ceased to cause him anything but satisfaction. He only smiled and
said--

"I might have spared my ring; Piero will accept no money from me; he
thinks himself paid by painting you. And now, while I am away, you will
look every day at those pretty symbols of our life together--the ship on
the calm sea, and the ivy that never withers, and those Loves that have
left off wounding us and shower soft petals that are like our kisses;
and the leopards and tigers, they are the troubles of your life that are
all quelled now; and the strange sea-monsters, with their merry eyes--
let us see--they are the dull passages in the heavy books, which have
begun to be amusing since we have sat by each other."

"Tito mio!" said Romola, in a half-laughing voice of love; "but you will
give me the key?" she added, holding out her hand for it.

"Not at all!" said Tito, with playful decision, opening his scarsella
and dropping in the little key. "I shall drown it in the Arno."

"But if I ever wanted to look at the crucifix again?"

"Ah! for that very reason it is hidden--hidden by these images of youth
and joy."

He pressed a light kiss on her brow, and she said no more, ready to
submit, like all strong souls, when she felt no valid reason for
resistance.

And then they joined the waiting company, which made a dignified little
procession as it passed along the Ponte Rubaconte towards Santa Croce.
Slowly it passed, for Bardo, unaccustomed for years to leave his own
house, walked with a more timid step than u