“Oh no! at least”—she paused—“No, I don’t believe I could ever be really that. I love the island.”
“What is it, then?”
“Sometimes—some days one doesn’t know exactly what to do.”
“Well, but you always seem occupied.” Hermione spoke with slow meaning, not unkindly, but with a significance she hardly meant to put into her voice, yet could not keep out of it. “You always manage to find something to do.”
Suddenly Vere’s eyes filled with tears. She bent down her head and went on eating. Again she heard Monsieur Emile’s harsh words. They seemed to have changed her world. She felt despised. At that moment she hated the Marchesino with a fiery hatred.
Hermione was not able to put her arm round her child quickly, to ask her what was the matter, to kiss her tears away, or to bid them flow quietly, openly, while Vere rested against her, secure that the sorrow was understood, was shared. She could only pretend not to see, while she thought of the two shadows in the garden last night.
What could have happened between Emile and Vere? What had been said, done, to cause that cry of pain, those tears? Was it possible that Emile had let Vere see plainly his—his—? But here Hermione stopped. Not even in her own mind, for herself alone, could she summon up certain spectres.
She went on eating her breakfast, and pretending not to notice that Vere was troubled. Presently Vere spoke again.
“Would you like me to come with you to Mergellina, Madre?” she said.
Her voice was rather uneven, almost trembling.