“I am sure she must have been pretty.”
“Chi lo sa?”
“If one looks carefully one can see the traces. But, of course, now—”
She stopped abruptly. It was impossible to her to go on. She was passionately trying to imagine what that spreading, graceless woman, with her fat hands resting on her knees set wide apart, was like once—was like nearly seventeen years ago. Was she ever pretty, beautiful? Never could she have been intelligent—never, never. Then she must have been beautiful. For otherwise—Hermione’s drawn face was flooded with scarlet.
“If—if it’s easier to you to row standing up, Gaspare,” she almost stammered, “never mind about sitting down.”
“I think it is easier, Signora.”
He got up, and once more turned his back upon her.
They did not speak again until they reached the island.
Hermione watched his strong body swinging to and fro with every stroke, and wondered if he felt the terrible change in her feeling for him—a change that a few hours ago she would have thought utterly impossible.
She wondered if Gaspare knew that she was hating him.