Artois went to the window and looked out. But now he saw nothing, although the three women were still talking and gesticulating on the terrace of the bath-house, more fishing-boats were being towed or rowed out into the Bay, carts were passing by, and people were strolling in the sun.
“You say that Vere showed agitation last night?” he said, turning round after a moment.
“About Ruffo’s illness? It really almost amounted to that. But Vere was certainly excited. Didn’t you notice it?”
“I think she was.”
“Emile,” Hermione said, after an instant of hesitation, “you remember my saying to you the other day that Vere was not a stranger to me?”
“Yes, quite well.”
“You said nothing—I don’t think you agreed. Well, since that day—only since then—I have sometimes felt that there is much in Vere that I do not understand, much that is hidden from me. Has she changed lately?”
“She is at an age when development seems sudden, and is often striking, even startling.”
“I don’t know why, but—but I dread something,” Hermione said. “I feel as if—no, I don’t know what I feel. But if Vere should ever drift away from me I don’t know how I could bear it. A boy—one expects him to go out into the world. But a girl! I want to keep Vere. I must keep Vere. If anything else were to be taken from me I don’t think I could bear it.”
“Vere loves you. Be sure of that.”