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Vere was hiding away her poems!
When Hermione understood that she felt the strong, good impulse
suddenly shrivel within her, and a bitter jealousy take its place.
Vere came to the door and opened it.
"Oh, come in, Madre! What is it?" she asked.
In her bright eyes there was the look of one unexpectedly disturbed.
Hermione glanced quickly at the writing-table.
"You--you weren't writing my note to Monsieur Emile?" she said.
She stepped into the room. She wished she could force Vere to tell her
about the poems, but without asking. She felt as if she could not
continue in her present condition, excluded from Vere's confidence.
Yet she knew now that she could never plead for it.
"No, Madre. I can do it to-morrow."
Vere looked and sounded surprised, and the mother felt more than ever
like an intruder. Yet something dogged kept her there.
"Are you tired, Vere?" she asked.
"Not a bit."
"Then let us have a little talk."
"Of course."
Vere shut the door. Hermione knew by the way she shut it that she
wanted to be alone, to go on with her secret occupation.


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