“Hermione,” he said, “I wish you had not Peppina here.”
“Still because of Vere?” she said.
And now she was looking at him steadily.
“I feel that she comes from another world, that she had better keep away from yours. I feel as if misfortune attended her.”
“It is odd. Even the servants say she has the evil eye. But, if she has, it is too late now. Peppina has looked upon us all.”
“Perhaps that old Eastern was right.” Artois could not help saying it. “Perhaps all that is to be is ordained long beforehand. Do you think that, Hermione?”
“I have sometimes thought it, when I have been depressed. I have sometimes said to myself, ‘E il destino!’”
She remembered at that moment her feeling on the day when she returned from the expedition with Vere to Capri—that perhaps she had returned to the island to confront some grievous fate. Had Artois such a thought, such a prevision? Suddenly she felt frightened, like a child when, at night, it passes the open door of a room that is dark.
She moved and got up from her chair. Like the child, when it rushes on and away, she felt in her panic the necessity of physical activity.
Artois followed her example. He was glad to move.