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And now, despite
her emotion, her full intelligence was roused up and at work. And
presently she remembered that Emile and Vere shared the knowledge of
her own desire to create, and her utter failure to succeed in
creation. Emile knew the whole naked truth of that. Vere did not. But
Vere knew something. Could that mutual knowledge be the reason of this
mutual secrecy? As women often do, Hermione had leaped into the very
core of the heart of the truth, had leaped out of the void, guided by
some strange instinct never alive in man. But, as women very seldom
do, she shrank away from the place she had gained. Instead of
triumphing, she was afraid. She remembered how often her imagination
had betrayed her, how it had created phantoms, had ruined for her the
lagging hours. Again and again she had said to herself, "I will beware
of it." Now she accused it of playing her false once more, of running
wild. Sharply she pulled herself up. She was assuming things. That was
her great fault, to assume that things were that which perhaps they
were not.


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