decision was necessary, I avoided that obstacle, and decided without consulting you. The very care of a husband for his wife's interest compels him to that separate action sometimes—even when he has such a wife as you, my Romola."
She turned her eyes on him in breathless inquiry.
"I mean," he said, answering her look, "that I have arranged for the transfer, both of the books and antiquities, where they will find the highest use and value. The books have been bought for the Duke of Milan, the marbles and bronzes and the rest are going to France; and both will be protected by the stability of a great Power, instead of remaining in a city which is exposed to ruin."
Before he had finished speaking, Romola had started from her seat, and stood up looking down at him, with tightened hands falling before her, and, for the first time in her life, with a flash of fierceness in her scorn and anger.
"You have sold them?" she asked, as if she distrusted her ears.
"I have," said Tito, quailing a little. The scene was unpleasant—the descending scorn already scorched him.
"You are a treacherous man!" she said, with something grating in her voice, as she looked down at him.
She was silent for a minute, and he sat still, feeling that ingenuity was powerless just now. Sud-
