She went away before he could say or do anything. For some time he was alone. Then Vere came. Hermione had not told her of the episode, and she had only come because she thought the pretended siesta had lasted long enough. When Artois told her about her mother, she wanted to run away at once, and see what was the matter—see if she could do something. But Artois stopped her.
“I should leave her to rest,” he said. “I—I feel sure she wishes to be alone.”
Vere was looking at him while he spoke, and her face caught the gravity of his, reflected it for a moment, then showed an uneasiness that deepened into fear. She laid her hand on his arm.
“Monsieur Emile, what is the matter with Madre?”
“Only a headache, I fancy. She did not sleep last night, and—”
“No, no, the real matter, Monsieur Emile.”
“What do you mean, Vere?”
The girl looked excited. Her own words had revealed to her a feeling of which till then she had only been vaguely aware.
“Madre has seemed different lately,” she said—“been different. I am sure she has. What is it?”
As the girl spoke, and looked keenly at him with her bright, searching eyes, a thought came, like a flash, upon Artois—a thought that almost frightened him. He could not tell it to Vere, and almost immediately he thrust it away from his mind. But Vere had seen that something had come to him.