Hermione remembered her conception of Emile Artois long ago, when she only knew him through two books; that she had believed him to be cruel, that she had thought her nature must be in opposition to his. Vere did not know that side of “Monsieur Emile.”
“Vere, it is true you are growing up,” she said, speaking rather slowly, as if to give herself time for something. “Perhaps I was wrong the other day in what I said. You may read Emile’s books if you like.”
“Madre!”
Vere’s face flushed with eager pleasure.
“Thank you, Madre!”
She went up to bed radiant.
When she had gone Hermione stood where she was. She had just done a thing that was mean, or at least she had done a thing from a mean, a despicable motive. She knew it as the door shut behind her child, and she was frightened of herself. Never before had she been governed by so contemptible a feeling as that which had just prompted her. If Emile ever knew, or even suspected what it was, she felt that she could never look into his face again with clear, unfaltering eyes. What madness was upon her? What change was working within her? Repulsion came, and with it the desire to combat at once, strongly, the new, the hateful self which had frightened her.
She hastened after Vere, and in a moment was knocking at the child’s door.
“Who’s there? Who is it?”
“Vere!” called the mother.