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Vere had said that Emile was forgetful. He might be many things, but
forgetful he was not. One of his most characteristic qualities was his
exceptionally sharp consciousness of himself and of others. Hermione
knew that he was incapable of writing to her and forgetting Vere while
he was doing so.
She did not exactly know why, but the result upon her of this letter
was a certain sense of depression, a slight and vague foreboding. And
yet she was glad, she was even thankful, to know that her friend, was
going to spend the summer on the Bay. She blamed herself for her
melancholy, telling herself that there was nothing in the words of
Artois to make her feel sad. Yet she continued to feel sad, to feel as
if some grievous change were at hand, as if she had returned to the
island to confront some untoward fate. It was very absurd of her. She
told herself that.
The excursion to Capri had been a cheerful one. She had enjoyed it.
But all the time she had been watching Vere, studying her, as she had
not watched and studied her before.


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