breath of sadness that still cleaved to
her lot while she saw her father month after month sink from elation
into new disappointment as Tito gave him less and less of his time, and
made bland excuses for not continuing his own share of the joint work--
that sadness was no fault of Tito's, she said, but rather of their
inevitable destiny. If he stayed less and less with her, why, that was
because they could hardly ever be alone. His caresses were no less
tender: if she pleaded timidly on any one evening that he should stay
with her father instead of going to another engagement which was not
peremptory, he excused himself with such charming gaiety, he seemed to
linger about her with such fond playfulness before he could quit her,
that she could only feel a little heartache in the midst of her love,
and then go to her father and try to soften his vexation and
disappointment. But all the while inwardly her imagination was busy
trying to see how Tito could be as good as she had thought he was, and
yet find it impossible to sacrifice those pleasures of society which
were necessarily more vivid to a bright creature like him than to the
common run of men. She herself would have liked more gaiety, more
admiration: it was true, she gave it up willingly for her father's
sake--she would have given up much more than that for the sake even of a
slight wish on Tito's part. It was clear that their natures differed
widely; but perhaps it was no more than the inherent difference between
man and woman, that made her affections more absorbing. If there were
any other difference she tried to persuade herself that the inferiority
was on her side. Tito was really kinder than she was, better tempered,
less proud and resentful; he had no angry retorts, he met all complaints
with perfect sweetness; he only escaped as quietly as he could from
things that were unpleasant.

It belongs to every large nature, when it is not under the immediate
power of some strong unquestioning emotion, to suspect itself, and doubt
the truth of its own impressions, conscious of possibilities beyond its
own horizon. And Romola was urged to doubt herself the more by the
necessity of interpreting her disappointment in her life with Tito so as
to satisfy at once her love and her pride. Disappointment? Yes, there
was no other milder word that would tell the truth. Perhaps all women
had to suffer the disappointment of ignorant hopes, if she only knew
their exper