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It seemed to her that if any one who knew her well, if
Vere, Emile, or even Gaspare, had come into the room just then, the
intruder would have paused on the threshold amazed to see a stranger
there. She felt afraid to be seen and yet afraid to remain alone.
Should she do something definite, something defiant, to prove to
herself that she had will and could exercise it?
She got up, resolved to go to Vere. When she was there, with her
child, she did not know what she was going to do. She had said to
Vere, "Keep your secrets." What if she went now and humbled herself,
explained to the child quite simply and frankly a mother's jealousy, a
widow's loneliness, made her realize what she was in a life from which
the greatest thing had been ruthlessly withdrawn? Vere would
understand surely, and all would be well. This shadow between them
would pass away. Hermione had her hand on the door. But she did not
open it. An imperious reserve, autocrat, tyrant, rose up suddenly
within her. She could never make such a confession to Vere.


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