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."
Still Tito did not look up, and Romola went out without saying any more. Very slight things make epochs in married life, and this morning for the first time she admitted to herself not only that Tito had changed, but that he had changed towards her. Did the reason lie in herself? She might perhaps have thought so, if there had not been the facts of the armour and the picture to suggest some external event which was an entire mystery to her.
But Tito no sooner believed that Romola was out of the house than he laid down his pen and looked up, in delightful security from seeing anything else
