She stood and watched him, as she might have watched a corpse of some one she had cared for but who was gone from her forever.
Perhaps he was not asleep, for almost directly he became aware of her observation, sat up, and uncovered his face, turning towards her and looking up. Already, and from this distance, she would see a fierce inquiry in his eyes.
She made a determined effort and waved her hand.
Gaspare sprang to his feet, took out his watch, looked at it, then went and fetched the boat.
His action—the taking out of the watch—reminded Hermione of the time. She looked at her watch. It was half-past two. On the island they lunched at half-past twelve. Gaspare must have been waiting for hours. What did it matter?
She made another determined effort and went down the remaining steps to the beach.
Gaspare should not know that she knew. She was resolved upon that, concentrated upon that. Continually she saw in front of her the pouting mouth, the white teeth of the boy who had laughed at her in the street. There should be no more crying, no more visible despair. No one should see any difference in her. All the time that she had been sitting still in the sun upon the bank she had been fiercely schooling herself in an act new to her—the act of deception. She had not faced the truth that to-day she knew. She had not faced the ruin that its knowledge had made of all that had been sacred and lovely in her life. She had fastened her whole force fanatically upon that one idea, that one decision and the effort that was the corollary of it.
“There shall be no difference in me. No one is to know that anything has happened.”
At that moment she was a fanatic. And she looked like one as she came down upon the sand.
“I’m afraid I’m rather late—Gaspare.”