The girl’s face looked troubled for a moment.
“She doesn’t—she has no idea.”
“Oh no.”
Vere was silent for a while.
“I wonder if I ought to tell her, Monsieur Emile,” she said at length.
“Tell her!” Artois said, hastily. “But I thought—”
He checked himself, suddenly surprised at the keenness of his own desire to keep their little secret.
“I know. You mean what I said the other day. But—if Madre should be hurt. I don’t think I have ever had a secret from her before, a real secret. But—it’s like this. If Madre knows I shall feel horribly self-conscious, because of what I told you—her having tried and given it up. I shall feel guilty. Is it absurd?”
“No.”
“And—and—I don’t believe I shall be able to go on. Of course some day, if it turns out that I ever can do anything, I must tell. But that would be different. If it’s certain that you can do a thing well it seems to me that you have a right to do it. But—till then—I’m a little coward, really.”