A darkness fell upon them. They had a safe, enclosed sensation in escaping for a moment from the white day, almost as if they had escaped from a white enemy.
Artois let the oars lie still in the water, keeping his hands lightly upon them, and both Hermione and he were silent for a few minutes, listening to the tiny sounds made now and then by drops of moisture which fell from the cavern roof softly into the almost silent sea. At last Artois said:
“You are out of the whiteness now. This is a shadowed place like a confessional, where murmuring lips tell to strangers the stories of their lives. I am not a stranger, but tell me, my friend, about yourself and Vere. Perhaps you scarcely know how deeply the mother and child problem interests me—that is, when mother and child are two real forces, as you and Vere are.”
“Then you think Vere has force?”
“Do not you?”
“What kind of force?”
“You mean physical, intellectual, or moral? Suppose I say she has the force of charm!”
“Indeed she has that, as he had. That is one of the attributes she derives from Maurice.”
“Yes. He had a wonderful charm. And then, Vere has passion.”
“You think so?”