“Can Madre be—”
She stopped. Her terror was increasing. She remembered many small mysteries in the recent conduct of her mother, many moments when she had been surprised, or made vaguely uneasy, by words or acts of her mother. Monsieur Emile, too, he had wondered, and more than once. She knew that. And Gaspare—she was sure that he, also, had seen that change which now, abruptly, had thus terribly culminated. Once in the boat she had asked him what was the matter with her mother, and he had, almost angrily, denied that anything was the matter. But she had seen in his eyes that he was acting a part—that he wished to detach her observation from her mother.
Her trembling ceased. Her little fingers closed more tightly on his arm. Her eyes became imperious.
“Gaspare, you are to tell me. I can bear it. You know something about Madre.”
“Signorina—”
“Do you think I’m a coward? I was frightened—I am frightened, but I’m not really a coward, Gaspare. I can bear it. What is it you know?”
“Signorina, we can’t do anything.”
“Is it—Does Monsieur Emile know what it is?”
He did not answer.
Suddenly she got up, went to the door, opened it, and listened. The horror came into her face again.