Maso, the old serving-man ushered in the two visitors he had announced a few minutes previously, and Nello introduced Tito to Bardo and his daughter as a scholar of considerable learning.

Romola’s astonishment could hardly have been greater if the stranger had worn a panther-skin and carried a thyrsus, for the cunning barber had said nothing of the Greeks age or appearance, and among her father’s scholarly visitors she had hardly ever seen any but gray-headed men.

Nevertheless, she returned Tito’s bow with the same pale, proud face as ever; but as he approached the snow melted, and when he ventured to look towards her again a pink flush overspread her face, to vanish again almost immediately, as if her imperious will had recalled it.  Tito’s glance, on the other hand, as he looked at this tall maiden of seventeen or eighteen, as she stood at the reading-desk with one hand on the back of her father’s chair, had that gentle, beseeching admiration in it which is the most propitiating of appeals to a proud, shy woman, and is perhaps the only atonement a man can make for being too handsome.

“Messere, I give you welcome,” said Bardo with some condescension; “misfortune wedded to learning, and especially to Greek learning, is a letter of credit that should win the ear of every instructed Florentine.”

He proceeded to question Tito as to what part of Greece he came from, learned that he was a young man of unusual scholastic attainments, and that he had a father who was himself a scholar.

“At least,” said Tito, “a father by adoption.  He was a Neapolitan, but,” he added, after another slight pause, “he is lost to me—­was lost on a voyage he too rashly undertook to Delos.”

Bardo forbore to speak further on so painful a topic; he discoursed freely upon his own studies, his past hopes, and the one great ambition that remained to him—­that his library and his magnificent collection of treasures should not be dissipated on his death, but should become the property of the public, and be honourably housed in Florence for all time, with his name over the door.

In his eagerness he made passing reference to his son, of how Romola had been filling his place to the best of her power, and plainly hinted—­and Tito was not slow to profit by the opportunity—­that if he could have the young Greek scholar to work with him instead of her, he might yet look to fulfill some of the notable designs he had abandoned when his blindness came upon him.

“But,” he resumed, in his original tone of condescension, “we are departing from what I believe is your most important business.  Nello informed me that you had certain gems which you would fain dispose of.”

“I have one or two intagli of much beauty,” said Tito.  “But they are now in the keeping of Messer Domenico Cennini, who has a strong and safe place for such things.  He estimates them as worth at least five hundred ducats.”