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Hermione knew how fond Vere was of reading, and supposed that this
love was increasing as the child grew older. She sometimes felt a
little lonely, but she was unselfish. Vere's freedom was quite
innocent. She, the mother, would not seek to interfere with it. Soon
after dinner on the evening of the Marchesino's expedition with
Artois, Vere had got up from the sofa, on which she had been sitting
with a book of Rossetti's poems in her hand, had gone over to one of
the windows, and had stood for two or three minutes looking out over
the sea. Then she had turned round, come up to her mother and kissed
her tenderly--more tenderly, Hermione thought, even than usual.
"Good-night, Madre mia," she had said.
And then, without another word, she had gone swiftly out of the room.
After Vere had gone the room seemed very silent. In the evening, if
they stayed in the house, they usually sat in Hermione's room up-
stairs. They had been sitting there to-night. The shutters were not
closed.


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