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For even if Emile . . . and then again came the most hateful
suspicion of all--but Emile could not lie about the things of art.
Had they spoken together of her failure? Again and again she asked
herself the question. They must have spoken. They had spoken. She
could almost hear their words--words of regret or of pity. "We must
not hurt her. We must keep it from her. We must temper the wind to the
shorn lamb." The elderly man and the child had read together the
tragedy of her failure. To the extremes of life, youth and age, she
had appeared an object of pity.
And then she thought of her dead husband's reverence of her intellect,
boyish admiration of her mental gifts; and an agony of longing for his
love swept over her again, and she felt that he was the only person
who had been able to love her really, and that now he was gone there
was no one.
At that moment she forgot Gaspare. Her sense of being abandoned, and
of being humiliated, swept out many things from her memory. Only
Maurice had loved her really.


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