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She had just done a
thing that was mean, or at least she had done a thing from a mean, a
despicable motive. She knew it as the door shut behind her child, and
she was frightened of herself. Never before had she been governed by
so contemptible a feeling as that which had just prompted her. If
Emile ever knew, or even suspected what it was, she felt that she
could never look into his face again with clear, unfaltering eyes.
What madness was upon her? What change was working within her?
Repulsion came, and with it the desire to combat at once, strongly,
the new, the hateful self which had frightened her.
She hastened after Vere, and in a moment was knocking at the child's
door.
"Who's there? Who is it?"
"Vere!" called the mother.
As she called she tried the door, and found it locked.
"Madre! It's you!"
"Yes. May I come in?"
"One tiny moment."
The voice within sounded surely a little startled and uneven,
certainly not welcoming. There was a pause. Hermione heard the
rustling of paper, then a drawer shut sharply.


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