entrance into the Via de' Bardi, and Romola noticed that he turned and looked at her with a sudden movement as if some shock had passed through him. A few moments after she paused at the half-open door of the court and turned towards him.
"Ah!" he said, not waiting for her to speak, "you are his wife."
"Whose wife?" said Romola.
It would have been impossible for Baldassarre to recall any name at that moment. The very force with which the image of Tito pressed upon him seemed to expel any verbal sign. He made no answer, but looked at her with strange fixedness.
She opened the door wide and showed the court covered with straw, on which lay four or five sick people, while some little children crawled or sat on it at their ease—tiny pale creatures, biting straws and gurgling.
"If you will come in," said Romola, tremulously, "I will find you a comfortable place, and bring you some more food."
"No, I will not come in," said Baldassarre. But he stood still, arrested by the burden of impressions under which his mind was too confused to choose a course.
"Can I do nothing for you?" said Romola. "Let me give you some money that you may buy food. It will be more plentiful soon."
She had put her hand into her scarsella as she
