Piero saw no better resource than to tell part of the truth.
"It was a mere accident. The man was running away—running up the steps, and caught hold of your husband: I suppose he had stumbled. I happened to be there, and saw it, and I thought the savage-looking old fellow was a good subject. But it's worth nothing—it's only a freakish daub of mine," Piero ended, contemptuously, moving the sketch away with an air of decision, and putting it on a high shelf. "Come and look at the Œdipus."
He had shown a little too much anxiety in putting the sketch out of her sight, and had produced the very impression he had sought to prevent—that there was really something unpleasant, something disadvantageous to Tito, in the circumstances out of which the picture arose. But this impression silenced her: her pride and delicacy shrank from questioning further, where questions might seem to imply that she could entertain even a slight suspicion against her husband. She merely said, in as quiet a tone as she could,
"He was a strange piteous-looking man, that prisoner. Do you know anything more of him?"
"No more: I showed him the way to the hospital, that's all. "See now, the face of Œdipus is pretty nearly finished; tell me what you think of it."
Romola now gave her whole attention to her father's portrait, standing in long silence before it.
