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But no! Vere's mysterious occupation had been followed too
long. And then Emile had not always known what it was. He had only
known lately.
Those long reveries of Vere upon the sea, when she lay in the little
boat in the shadow cast by the cliffs over the Saint's Pool--they were
the prelude to work; imaginative, creative perhaps.
And Vere was not seventeen.
Hermione smiled to herself rather bitterly, thinking of the ignorance,
of the inevitable folly of youth. The child, no doubt, had dreams of
fame. What clever, what imaginative and energetic child has not such
dreams at some period or other? How absurd we all are, thinking to
climb to the stars almost as soon as we can see them!
And then the smile died away from Hermione's lips as the great
tenderness of the mother within her was moved by the thought of the
disappointments that come with a greater knowledge of life. Vere would
suffer when she learned the truth, when she knew the meaning of
failure.
Quite simply and naturally Hermione was including her child inevitably
within the circle of her own disaster.


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