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 today; 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 today, 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.”