“I wonder you have forgotten, Tito,” she answered, looking at him anxiously, as if she wanted to read an excuse for him in the signs of bodily fatigue. “You know I am making the catalogue on the new plan that my father wished for; you have not time to help me, so I must work at it closely.”
Tito, instead of meeting Romola’s glance, closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face and hair. He felt he was behaving unlike himself, but he would make amends tomorrow. The terrible resurrection of secret fears, which, if Romola had known them, would have alienated her from him forever, caused him to feel an alienation already begun between them—caused him to feel a certain repulsion towards a woman from whose mind he was in danger. The feeling had taken hold of him unawares, and he was vexed with himself for behaving in this new cold way to her. He could not suddenly command any affectionate looks or words; he could only exert himself to say what might serve as an excuse.
“I am not well, Romola; you must not be surprised if I am peevish.”
“Ah, you have had so much to tire you today,” said Romola, kneeling down close to him, and laying her arm on his chest while she put his hair back caressingly.
Suddenly she drew her arm away with a start, and a gaze of alarmed inquiry.
“What have you got under your tunic, Tito? Something as hard as iron.”
“It is iron—it is chain-armour,” he said at once. He was prepared for the surprise and the question, and he spoke quietly, as of something that he was not hurried to explain.
“There was some unexpected danger today, then?” said Romola, in a tone of conjecture. “You had it lent to you for the procession?”