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At first she stood. Then she sat down. She took up the paper, handled
it, held it close to her eyes.
Verses! Vere was writing verses. Of course! Every one begins by being
a poet. Hermione smiled, almost laughed aloud. Poor little Vere with
her poor little secret! There was still that bitterness in the mother,
that sense of wrong. But she read on and on. And presently she started
and her hand shook.
She had come to a poem that was corrected in Vere's handwriting, and
on the margin was written, "Monsieur Emile's idea."
So there had been a conference, and Emile was advising Vere.
Hermione's hand shook so violently that she could not go on reading
for a moment, and she laid the paper down. She felt like one who has
suddenly unmasked a conspiracy against herself. It was useless for her
intellect to deny this conspiracy, for her heart proclaimed it.
Long ago Emile had told her frankly that it was in vain for her to
waste her time in creative work, that she had not the necessary gift
for it.


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