“I wish you once for all to understand,” he said, without any change of voice, “that such collisions are incompatible with our position as husband and wife. I wish you to reflect on the mode in which you were led to that step, that the process may not be repeated.”
“That depends chiefly on you, Tito,” said Romola, taking fire slightly. It was not at all what she had thought of saying, but we see a very little way before us in mutual speech.
“You would say, I suppose,” answered Tito, “that nothing is to occur in future which can excite your unreasonable suspicions. You were frank enough to say last night that you have no belief in me. I am not surprised at any exaggerated conclusion you may draw from slight premises, but I wish to point out to you what is likely to be the fruit of your making such exaggerated conclusions a ground for interfering in affairs of which you are ignorant. Your attention is thoroughly awake to what I am saying?”
He paused for a reply.
“Yes,” said Romola, flushing in irrepressible resentment at this cold tone of superiority.
“Well, then, it may possibly not be very long before some other chance words or incidents set your imagination at work devising crimes for me, and you may perhaps rush to the Palazzo Vecchio to alarm the Signoria and set the city in an uproar.
Shall I tell you what may be the result? Not simply the disgrace of your husband, to which you look forward with so much courage, but the arrest and ruin of many among the chief men in Florence, including Messer Bernardo del Nero.”
Tito had meditated a decisive move, and he had made it. The flush died out of Romola’s face, and her very lips were pale—an unusual effect with