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She felt "Vere can talk to Emile better than I
can. She interests him more than I." And then her years seemed to
gather round her and whip her. She shrank beneath the thongs of age,
which had not even brought to her those gifts of the mind with which
it often partially replaces the bodily gifts and graces it is so eager
to remove.
"Hermione."
"Yes, Emile."
She turned slowly in her chair, forcing herself to face him.
"Are you sure you are not feeling ill?"
"Quite sure. Did you have a pleasant morning with Vere?"
"Yes. Oh"--he sat forward in his chair--"she told me something that
rather surprised me--that you had told her she might read my books."
"Well?"
Hermione's voice was rather hard.
"Well, I never meant them for 'la jeune fille.' "
"You consider Vere--"
"Is she not?"
She felt he was condemning her secretly for her permission to Vere.
What would he think if he knew her under-reason for giving it?
"You don't wish Vere to read your books, then?"
"No.


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