yesterday’s crop upon it. Come, come—consign yourself to the priest of all the Muses. Sandro, quick with the lather!”
“In truth, Nello, that is just what I most desire at this moment,” said Tito, seating himself; “and that was why I turned my steps towards thy shop, instead of going home at once, when I had done my business at the Palazzo.”
“Yes, indeed, it is not fitting that you should present yourself to Madonna Romola with a rusty chin and a tangled zazzera . Nothing that is not dainty ought to approach the Florentine lily; though I see her constantly going about like a sunbeam amongst the rags that line our corners—if indeed she is not more like a moonbeam now, for I thought yesterday, when I met her, that she looked as pale and worn as that fainting Madonna of Fra Giovanni’s. You must see to it, my bel erudito : she keeps too many fasts and vigils in your absence.”
Tito gave a melancholy shrug.
“It is too true, Nello. She has been depriving herself of half her proper food every day during this famine. But what can I do? Her mind has been set all aflame. A husband’s influence is powerless against the Frate’s.”
“As every other influence is likely to be, that of the Holy Father included,” said Domenico Cennini, one of the group at the door, who had turned in with Tito. “I don’t know whether you have gathered anything at Pisa about the way the wind sits at Rome, Melema?”
“Secrets of the council-chamber, Messer Domenico!” said Tito, smiling and opening his palms in a deprecatory manner. “An envoy must be as dumb as a father confessor.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Cennini. “I ask for no breach of that rule. Well, my belief is, that if his Holiness were to drive Fra Girolamo to