ed to look at the volumes spread
open. Could he by long gazing at one of those books lay hold of the
slippery threads of memory? Could he, by striving, get a firm grasp
somewhere, and lift himself above these waters that flowed over him?

He was tempted, and bought the cheapest Greek book he could see. He
carried it home and sat on his heap of straw, looking at the characters
by the light of the small window; but no inward light arose on them.
Soon the evening darkness came; but it made little difference to
Baldassarre. His strained eyes seemed still to see the white pages with
the unintelligible black marks upon them.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

FRUIT IS SEED.

"My Romola," said Tito, the second morning after he had made his speech
in the Piazza del Duomo, "I am to receive grand visitors to-day; the
Milanese Count is coming again, and the Seneschal de Beaucaire, the
great favourite of the Cristianissimo. I know you don't care to go
through smiling ceremonies with these rustling magnates, whom we are not
likely to see again; and as they will want to look at the antiquities
and the library, perhaps you had better give up your work to-day, and go
to see your cousin Brigida."

Romola discerned a wish in this intimation, and immediately assented.
But presently, coming back in her hood and mantle, she said, "Oh, what a
long breath Florence will take when the gates are flung open, and the
last Frenchman is walking out of them! Even you are getting tired, with
all your patience, my Tito; confess it. Ah, your head is hot."

He was leaning over his desk, writing, and she had laid her hand on his
head, meaning to give a parting caress. The attitude had been a
frequent one, and Tito was accustomed, when he felt her hand there, to
raise his head, throw himself a little backward, and look up at her.
But he felt now as unable to raise his head as if her hand had been a
leaden cowl. He spoke instead, in a light tone, as his pen still ran
along.

"The French are as ready to go from Florence as the wasps to leave a
ripe pear when they have just fastened on it."

Romola, keenly sensitive to the absence of the usual response, took away
her hand and said, "I am going, Tito."

"Farewell, my sweet one. I must wait at home. Take Maso with you."

Still Tito did not look up, and Romola went out without saying any more.
Very slight things make Epochs in married life, and this morning for
the first time she admitted to hersel