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Artois had never heard her speak quite like
this before, with a curious deliberation that was nevertheless without
self-consciousness. Before he could answer she added, abruptly, as if
correcting, or even almost condemning herself:
"I can put it much better than that. I have."
Artois leaned forward. Something, he did not quite know what, made him
feel suddenly a deep interest in what Vere said--a strong curiosity
even.
"You have put it much better?" he said.
Vere suddenly looked conscious. A faint wave of red went over her face
and down to her small neck. Her hands moved and parted. She seemed
half ashamed of something for a minute.
"Madre doesn't know," she murmured, as if she were giving him a reason
for something. "It isn't interesting," she added. "Except, of course,
to me."
Artois was watching her.
"I think you really want to tell me," he said now.
"Oh yes, in a way I do. I have been half wanting to for a long time--
but only half."
"And now?"
She looked at him, but almost instantly looked down again, with a sort
of shyness he had never seen in her before.


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