“Of course, Madre. And I’ll tell Monsieur Emile all I think of him for neglecting us as he has. Ah! But I remember; he’s been working.”
“Yes, he’s been working; and one must forgive everything to the worker, mustn’t one?”
“To such a worker as Monsieur Emile is, yes. I do wish you’d let me read his books, Madre.”
For a moment Hermione hesitated, looking at her child.
“Why are you so anxious to read them all of a sudden?” she asked.
“Well, I’m growing up and—and I understand things I used not to understand.”
Her eyes fell for a moment before her mother’s, and there was a silence, in which the mother felt some truth withheld. Vere looked up again.
“And I want to appreciate Monsieur Emile properly—as you do, Madre. It seems almost ridiculous to know him so well, and not to know him really at all.”
“But you do know him really.”
“I’m sure he puts most of his real self into his work.”