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Hermione was lying down, but not
sleeping. Vere was not lying down. Generally she slept at this time
for an hour. But to-day, perhaps because of her nap in the cave, she
had no desire for sleep.
She was thinking about her mother. And Hermione was thinking of her.
Each mind was working in the midst of its desert space, its solitude
eternal.
What was growing up between them, and why was it growing?
Hermione was beset by a strange sensation of impotence. She felt as if
her child were drifting from her. Was it her fault, or was it no
one's, and inevitable? Had Vere been able to divine certain feelings
in her, the mother, obscure pains of the soul that had travelled to
mind and heart? She did not think it possible. Nor had it been
possible for her to kill those pains, although she had made her effort
--to conceal them. Long ago, before she was married to Maurice, Emile
had spoken to them of jealousy. At the time she had not understood it.
She remembered thinking, even saying, that she could not be jealous.


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