," said Piero, putting his fingers in the
basket for another. He had eaten nothing but hard eggs for a fortnight.
Romola stood opposite him, feeling her new anxiety suspended for a
little while by the sight of this _naive_ enjoyment.

"Good--bye, Piero," she said, presently, setting down the basket. "I
promise not to thank you if you finish the portrait soon and well I will
tell you, you were bound to do it for your own credit."

"Good," said Piero, curtly, helping her with much deftness to fold her
mantle and veil round her.

"I'm glad she asked no more questions about that sketch," he thought,
when he had closed the door behind her. "I should be sorry for her to
guess that I thought her fine husband a good model for a coward. But I
made light of it; she'll not think of it again."

Piero was too sanguine, as open-hearted men are apt to be when they
attempt a little clever simulation. The thought of the picture pressed
more and more on Romola as she walked homeward. She could not help
putting together the two facts of the chain-armour and the encounter
mentioned by Piero between her husband and the prisoner, which had
happened on the morning of the day when the armour was adopted. That
look of terror which the painter had given Tito, had he seen it? What
could it all mean?

"It means nothing," she tried to assure herself. "It was a mere
coincidence. Shall I ask Tito about it?" Her mind said at last, "No: I
will not question him about anything he did not tell me spontaneously.
It is an offence against the trust I owe him." Her heart said, "I dare
not ask him."

There was a terrible flaw in the trust: she was afraid of any hasty
movement, as men are who hold something precious and want to believe
that it is not broken.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH.

"The old fellow has vanished; went on towards Arezzo the next morning;
not liking the smell of the French, I suppose, after being their
prisoner. I went to the hospital to inquire after him; I wanted to know
if those broth-making monks had found out whether he was in his right
mind or not. However, they said he showed no signs of madness--only
took no notice of questions, and seemed to be planting a vine twenty
miles off. He was a mysterious old tiger. I should have liked to know
something more about him."

It was in Nello's shop that Piero di Cosimo was speaking, on the
twenty-fourth of November, just a week after the entrance of