She stepped into the room. She wished she could force Vere to tell her about the poems, but without asking. She felt as if she could not continue in her present condition, excluded from Vere’s confidence. Yet she knew now that she could never plead for it.
“No, Madre. I can do it to-morrow.”
Vere looked and sounded surprised, and the mother felt more than ever like an intruder. Yet something dogged kept her there.
“Are you tired, Vere?” she asked.
“Not a bit.”
“Then let us have a little talk.”
“Of course.”
Vere shut the door. Hermione knew by the way she shut it that she wanted to be alone, to go on with her secret occupation. She came back slowly to her mother, who was sitting on a chair by the bedside. Hermione took her hand, and Vere pushed up the edge of the mosquito-curtain and sat down on the bed.
“About those books of Emile’s—” Hermione began.
“Oh, Madre, you’re not going to—But you’ve promised!”