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Her father had been the dancing Faun. She had not, could never have
his gift of thoughtlessness. For she had intellect, derived from
Hermione, and an old truthfulness that was certainly not Sicilian.
Often there were what Artois called "Northern Lights" in her
sincerity. The strains in her, united, made, he thought, a fascinating
blend. But as yet she was undeveloped--an interesting, a charming
child, but only a child. In many ways she was young for her age.
Highly intelligent, she was anything rather than "knowing." Her
innocence was like clear water in a spring. The graciousness of youth
was hers to the full.
As Artois thought of it he was conscious, as of a new thing, of the
wonderful beauty of such innocent youth.
It was horrible to connect it with suffering. And yet that link in the
chain did exist. Vere had not something that surely she ought to have,
and, without consciously missing it, she must sometimes subtly,
perhaps vaguely, be aware that there was a lack in her life.


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