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In short, she was not formed and endowed to
be an artist. About such matters Artois knew only how to be sincere.
He was sincere with his friend, and she thanked him for being so.
One possible life was taken from Hermione, the life of the artist who
lives in the life of the work.
There remained the life in Vere.
To-day Artois knew from Hermione's own lips that she could not live
completely in her child, and he felt that he had been blind as men are
often blind about women, are blind because they are secretly selfish.
The man lives for himself, but he thinks it natural, even
distinctively womanly, that women should live for others--for him, for
some other man, for their children. What man finds his life in his
child? But the woman--she surely ought to, and without difficulty.
Hermione had been sincere to-day, and Artois knew his blindness, and
knew his secret selfishness.
The gray was lifting a little over Naples, the distant shadowy form of
Vesuvius was becoming clearer, more firm in outline.


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