She looked up and met his eyes, and was sure she read condemnation in them.
“After I had told Vere—” she began.
She was about to defend herself, to tell him how she had gone to Vere’s room intending to withdraw the permission given; but suddenly she realized clearly that she, a mother, was being secretly taken to task by a man for her conduct to her child.
That was intolerable.
And Vere had yielded to Emile’s prohibition, though she had eagerly resisted her mother’s attempt to retreat from the promise made. That was more intolerable.
She sat without saying anything. Her knees were trembling under her thin summer gown. Artois felt something of her agitation, perhaps, for he said, with a kind of hesitating diffidence, very rare in him:
“Of course, my friend, I would not interfere between you and Vere, only, as I was concerned, as they were my own writings that were in question—” He broke off. “You won’t misunderstand my motives?” he concluded.
“Oh no.”
He was more conscious that she was feeling something acutely.
“I feel that I perfectly understand why you gave the permission at this particular moment,” he continued, anxious to excuse her to herself and to himself.