t
altogether a pleasant promenade for well-born women; but Romola,
shrouded in her black veil and mantle, and with old Maso by her side,
felt secure enough from impertinent observation.

And she was impatient to visit Piero di Cosimo. A copy of her father's
portrait as Oedipus, which he had long ago undertaken to make for her,
was not yet finished; and Piero was so uncertain in his work--sometimes,
when the demand was not peremptory, laying aside a picture for months;
sometimes thrusting it into a corner or coffer, where it was likely to
be utterly forgotten--that she felt it necessary to watch over his
progress. She was a favourite with the painter, and he was inclined to
fulfil any wish of hers, but no general inclination could be trusted as
a safeguard against his sudden whims. He had told her the week before
that the picture would perhaps be finished by this time; and Romola was
nervously anxious to have in her possession a copy of the only portrait
existing of her father in the days of his blindness, lest his image
should grow dim in her mind. The sense of defect in her devotedness to
him made her cling with all the force of compunction as well as
affection to the duties of memory. Love does not aim simply at the
conscious good of the beloved object: it is not satisfied without
perfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own completeness.

Romola, by special favour, was allowed to intrude upon the painter
without previous notice. She lifted the iron slide and called Piero in
a flute-like tone, as the little maiden with the eggs had done in Tito's
presence. Piero was quick in answering, but when he opened the door he
accounted for his quickness in a manner that was not complimentary.

"Ah, Madonna Romola, is it you? I thought my eggs were come; I wanted
them."

"I have brought you something better than hard eggs, Piero. Maso has
got a little basket full of cakes and _confetti_ for you," said Romola,
smiling, as she put back her veil. She took the basket from Maso, and
stepping into the house, said--

"I know you like these things when you can have them without trouble.
Confess you do."

"Yes, when they come to me as easily as the light does," said Piero,
folding his arms and looking down at the sweetmeats as Romola uncovered
them and glanced at him archly. "And they are come along with the light
now," he added, lifting his eyes to her face and hair with a painter's
admiration, as her hood, dragged by