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"Yes. She is glad, I know. Dear little Vere!"
Her voice was dull, and she spoke--or he fancied so--rather
mechanically. He remembered all she did not know and was conscious of
her false position. In their intercourse she had so often, so
generally, been the enthusiastic sympathizer. More than she knew she
had inspired him.
"Dear Hermione! How good it is to be here with you!" he said, turning
towards her the current of his sympathy. "As one grows old one clings
to the known, the proved. That passion at least increases while so
many others fade away, the passion for all that is faithful in a
shifting world, for all that is real, that does not suffer corruption,
disintegration! How adorable is Time where Time is powerless!"
"Is Time ever powerless?" she said. "Ah, here is Vere!"
They dined outside upon the terrace facing Vesuvius. Artois sat
between mother and child. Vere was very quiet. Her excitement, her
almost feverish gayety of the evening of the storm had vanished.


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