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They were covered with writing. They
drew, they fascinated her eyes, and she stood still, with her hand
resting on the door-handle. As a rule it would have seemed perfectly
natural to her to read anything that Vere had left lying about, either
in her own room or anywhere else. Until just lately her child had
never had, or dreamed of having any secret from her. Never had Vere
received a letter that her mother had not seen. Secrets simply did not
exist between them--secrets, that is, of the child from the mother.
But it was not so now. And that was why those sheets of paper drew and
held the mother's eyes.
She had, of course, a perfect right to read them. Or had she--she who
had said to Vere, "Keep your secrets"? In those words had she not
deliberately relinquished such a right? She stood there thinking,
recalling those words, debating within herself this question--and
surely with much less than her usual great honesty.
Emile, she was sure, had read the writing upon those sheets of paper.


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