the weight of her veil, fell
backward.

"But I know what the sweetmeats are for," he went on; "they are to stop
my mouth while you scold me. Well, go on into the next room, and you
will see I've done something to the picture since you saw it, though
it's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, you know: I take care not
to promise:--

"`Chi promette e non mantiene
L'anima sua non va mai bene.'"

The door opening on the wild garden was closed now, and the painter was
at work. Not at Romola's picture, however. That was standing on the
floor, propped against the wall, and Piero stooped to lift it, that he
might carry it into the proper light. But in lifting away this picture,
he had disclosed another--the oil-sketch of Tito, to which he had made
an important addition within the last few days. It was so much smaller
than the other picture, that it stood far within it, and Piero, apt to
forget where he had placed anything, was not aware of what he had
revealed as, peering at some detail in the painting which he held in his
hands, he went to place it on an easel. But Romola exclaimed, flushing
with astonishment--

"That is Tito!"

Piero looked round, and gave a silent shrug. He was vexed at his own
forgetfulness.

She was still looking at the sketch in astonishment; but presently she
turned towards the painter, and said with puzzled alarm--

"What a strange picture! When did you paint it? What does it mean?"

"A mere fancy of mine," said Piero, lifting off his skull-cap,
scratching his head, and making the usual grimace by which he avoided
the betrayal of any feeling. "I wanted a handsome young face for it,
and your husband's was just the thing."

He went forward, stooped down to the picture, and lifting it away with
its back to Romola, pretended to be giving it a passing examination,
before putting it aside as a thing not good enough to show.

But Romola, who had the fact of the armour in her mind, and was
penetrated by this strange coincidence of things which associated Tito
with the idea of fear, went to his elbow and said--

"Don't put it away; let me look again. That man with the rope round his
neck--I saw him--I saw you come to him in the Duomo. What was it that
made you put him into a picture with Tito?"

Piero saw no better resource than to tell part of the truth.

"It was a mere accident. The man was running away--running up the
steps, and caught hold of your husband: I suppose he ha