“I feel guilty,” she said.
“Why?”
“Coming at such an hour. Are you working?”
“No. I don’t know why, but I am incapable of work. I feel both lazy and restless, an unfruitful combination. Perhaps something in me secretly knew that you were coming.”
“Then it is my fault.”
They came into his sitting-room. It had four windows, two facing the sea, two looking on the road, and the terraces and garden of the Hotel Hassler. The room scarcely suggested its present occupant. It contained a light-yellow carpet with pink flowers strewn over it, red-and-gold chairs, mirrors, a white marble mantelpiece, a gray-and-pink sofa with a pink cushion. Only the large writing-table, covered with manuscripts, letters, and photographs in frames, said something individual to the visitor. Hermione and Vere were among the photographs.
Hermione sat down on the sofa.
“I have come to consult you about something, Emile.”
“What is it?”
“I really meant to ask you last night, but somehow I couldn’t”