Romola was still too thoroughly under the painful pressure of the new revelation Tito was making of himself, for her resistance to find any strong vent.
As that fluent talk fell on her ears there was a rising contempt within her, which only made her more conscious of her bruised, despairing love, her love for the Tito she had married and believed in.
Her nature, possessed with the energies of strong emotion, recoiled from this hopelessly shallow readiness which professed to appropriate the widest sympathies and had no pulse for the nearest.
She still spoke like one who was restrained from showing all she felt. She had only drawn away her arm from his knee, and sat with her hands clasped before her, cold and motionless as locked waters.
“You talk of substantial good, Tito!
Are faithfulness, and love, and sweet grateful memories, no good?
Is it no good that we should keep our silent promises on which others build because they believe in our love and truth?
Is it no good that a just life should be justly honoured?
Or, is it good that we should harden our hearts against all the wants and hopes of those who have depended on us?
What good can belong to men who have such souls?
To talk cleverly, perhaps, and find soft couches for themselves, and live and die with their base selves as their best companions.”