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She had come into the house quietly, and found Artois waiting for her
alone. Hermione had gone to bed, leaving word that she had a headache.
And Vere was glad that night not to see her mother. She wished to see
no one, and she bade Artois good-bye at once, telling him nothing, and
not meeting his eyes when he touched her hand in adieu. And he had
asked nothing. Why should he, when he read the truth in the grave,
almost stern face of the child?
Vere knew.
The veils that hung before the happy eyes of childhood had been torn
away, and those eyes had looked for the first time into the deeps of
an unhappy human heart.
And he had thought it possible to preserve, perhaps for a long while,
Vere's beautiful ignorance untouched. He had thought of the island as
a safe retreat in which her delicate, and as yet childish talent,
might gradually mature under his influence and the influence of the
sea. She had been like some charming and unusual plant of the sea,
shot with sea colors, wet with sea winds, fresh with the freshness of
the smooth-backed waves.


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