“So do I,” Vere said. “He had a reason, I’m sure. You’re tired Madre, so I’ll go to bed. Good-night.”
She came to her mother and kissed her. Moved by a sudden overwhelming impulse of tenderness, Hermione put her arms round the child’s slim body. But even as she did so she remembered Vere’s secret, shared with Emile and not with her. She could not abruptly loose her arms without surprising her child. But they seemed to her to stiffen, against her will, and her embrace was surely mechanical. She wondered if Vere noticed this, but she did not look into her eyes to see.
“Good-night, Vere.”
“Good-night.”
Vere was at the door when Hermione remembered her two meetings of that evening.
“By-the-way,” she said, “I met the Marchesino to-night. He was at the Scoglio di Frisio.”
“Was he?”
“And afterwards on the sea I met Emile.”
“Monsieur Emile! Then he isn’t quite dead!”
There was a sound almost of irritation in Vere’s voice.