“Never mind, sweet,” he said, carelessly. “Do not think about the fire. Come—come and sit down.”
There was a low stool against Tito’s chair, and that was Romola’s habitual seat when they were talking together.
She rested her arm on his knee, as she used to do on her father’s, and looked up at him while he spoke.
He had never yet noticed the presence of the portrait, and she had not mentioned it—thinking of it all the more.
“I have been enjoying the clang of the bells for the first time, Tito,” she began. “I liked being shaken and deafened by them: I fancied I was something like a Bacchante possessed by a divine rage. Are not the people looking very joyful tonight?”
“Joyful after a sour and pious fashion,” said Tito, with a shrug.
“But, in truth, those who are left behind in Florence have little cause to be joyful: it seems to me, the most reasonable ground of gladness would be to have got out of Florence.”
Tito had sounded the desired keynote without any trouble, or appearance of premeditation. He spoke with no emphasis, but he looked grave enough to make Romola ask rather anxiously—
“Why, Tito? Are there fresh troubles?”
“No need of fresh ones, my Romola. There are three strong parties in the city, all ready to fly at each other’s throats. And if the Frate’s party is strong enough to frighten the other two into silence, as seems most likely, life will be as pleasant and amusing as a funeral.