“And it was our good strange Piero who painted it?” said Romola. “Did you put it into his head to paint me as Antigone, that he might have my likeness for this?”
“No, it was he who made my getting leave for him to paint you and your father, a condition of his doing this for me.”
“Ah! I see now what it was you gave up your precious ring for. I perceived you had some cunning plan to give me pleasure.”
Tito did not blench. Romola’s little illusions about himself had long ceased to cause him anything but satisfaction. He only smiled and said—
“I might have spared my ring; Piero will accept no money from me; he thinks himself paid by painting you. And now, while I am away, you will look every day at those pretty symbols of our life together—the ship on the calm sea, and the ivy that never withers, and those Loves that have left off wounding us and shower soft petals that are like our kisses; and the leopards and tigers, they are the troubles of your life that are all quelled now; and the strange sea-monsters, with their merry eyes—let us see—they are the dull passages in the heavy books, which have begun to be amusing since we have sat by each other.”
“Tito mio!” said Romola, in a half-laughing voice of love; “but you will give me the key?” she added, holding out her hand for it.
“Not at all!” said Tito, with playful decision, opening his scarsella and dropping in the little key. “I shall drown it in the Arno.”
“But if I ever wanted to look at the crucifix again?”
“Ah! for that very reason it is hidden—hidden by these images of youth and joy.”
He pressed a light kiss on her brow, and she said no more, ready to submit, like all strong souls, when she felt no valid reason for resistance.