“Emile,” she said, “what was it you meant about Peppina? I think I have a right to know. I brought her into the house. Why should Peppina have anything to do with my giving Vere permission to read your books?”
Artois’ instinct was not to tell what Vere had not told, and therefore had not wished to be known. Yet he hated to shuffle with Hermione. He chose a middle course.
“My friend,” he said quietly, but with determination, “I made a mistake. I was following foolishly a wrong track. Let us say no more about it. But do not be angry with me about the books. I think my motive in speaking as I did to Vere was partly a selfish one. It is not only that I wish Vere to be as she is for as long a time as possible, but that I—well, don’t think me a great coward if I say that I almost dread her discovery of all the cruel knowledge that is mine, and that I have, perhaps wrongly, brought to the attention of the world.”
Hermione was amazed.
“You regret having written your books!” she said.
“I don’t know—I don’t know. But I think the happy confidence, the sweet respect of youth, makes one regret a thousand things. Don’t you, Hermione? Don’t you think youth is often the most terrible tutor age can have?”
She thought of Ruffo singing, “Oh, dolce luna bianca de l’ Estate”—and suddenly she felt that she could not stay any longer with Artois just then. She got up.
“I don’t feel very well,” she said.
Artois sprang up and came towards her with a face full of concern. But she drew back.
“I didn’t sleep last night—and then going into Naples—I’ll go to my room and lie down. I’ll keep quiet. Vere will look after you. I’ll be down at tea.”