“But you have come to me, Tito—not quite too late. I will lose no time in vain regret. When you are working by my side I seem to have found a son again.”
The old man, preoccupied with the governing interest of his life, was only thinking of the much-meditated book which had quite thrust into the background the suggestion, raised by Bernardo del Nero’s warning, of a possible marriage between Tito and Romola.
But Tito could not allow the moment to pass unused.
“Will you let me be always and altogether your son? Will you let me take care of Romola—be her husband? I think she will not deny me. She has said she loves me. I know I am not equal to her in birth—in anything; but I am no longer a destitute stranger.”
“Is it true, my Romola?” said Bardo, in a lower tone, an evident vibration passing through him and dissipating the saddened aspect of his features.
“Yes, father,” said Romola, firmly. “I love Tito—I wish to marry him, that we