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"
"Then it is my fault."
They came into his sitting-room. It had four windows, two facing the
sea, two looking on the road, and the terraces and garden of the Hotel
Hassler. The room scarcely suggested its present occupant. It
contained a light-yellow carpet with pink flowers strewn over it, red-
and-gold chairs, mirrors, a white marble mantelpiece, a gray-and-pink
sofa with a pink cushion. Only the large writing-table, covered with
manuscripts, letters, and photographs in frames, said something
individual to the visitor. Hermione and Vere were among the
photographs.
Hermione sat down on the sofa.
"I have come to consult you about something, Emile."
"What is it?"
"I really meant to ask you last night, but somehow I couldn't"
"Why?"
"I don't know. We--I--there seemed to be a sort of barrier between us
--didn't there?"
"I was in a bad humor. I was tired after the journey, and perhaps the
weather upset me."
"It's all right--one can't be always-- Well, this is what I wanted to
say.


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