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"
"Monsieur Emile! Then he isn't quite dead!"
There was a sound almost of irritation in Vere's voice.
"He has been working very hard."
"Oh, I see."
Her voice had softened.
"The Marchesino is coming here to lunch to-morrow."
"Oh, Madre!"
"Does he bore you? I had to ask him to something after accepting his
dinner, Vere."
"Yes, yes, of course. The Marchese is all right."
She stood by the door with her bright, expressive eyes fixed on her
mother. Her dark hair had been a little roughened by the breeze from
Ischia, and stuck up just above the forehead, giving to her face an
odd, almost a boyish look.
"What is it, Vere?"
"And when is Monsieur Emile coming? Didn't he say?"
"No. He suggested to-morrow, but when I told him the Marchese was
coming he said he wouldn't."
As Hermione said this she looked very steadily at her child. Vere's
eyes did not fall, but met hers simply, fearlessly, yet not quite
childishly.
"I don't wonder," she said. "To tell the truth, Madre, I can't see how
a man like the Marchesino could interest a man like Monsieur Emile--at
any rate, for long.


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