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To Vere it had seemed like five minutes.
Her cheeks were hotly flushed. Her eyes shone. With hands that were
slightly trembling she gathered together her manuscripts, and
carefully arranged them in a neat packet and put a piece of ribbon
round them, tying it in a little bow. Meanwhile Artois, standing up,
was knocking the shreds of tobacco out of his pipe against the
chimney-piece into his hand. He carried them over to the window,
dropped them out, then stood for a minute looking at the sea.
"The evening calm is coming, Vere," he said, "bringing with it the
wonder of this world."
"Yes."
He heard a soft sigh behind him, and turned round.
"Why was that? Has dejection set in, then?"
"No, no."
"You know the Latin saying: 'Festina lente'? If you want to understand
how slowly you must hasten, look at me."
He had been going to add, "Look at these gray hairs," but he did not.
Just then he felt suddenly an invincible reluctance to call Vere's
attention to the signs of age apparent in him.


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