But presently, glancing across at Hermione, he was surprised by
the expression on her face. It seemed to him as if a face of stone had
suddenly looked bitterly satirical. He was so astonished that the
words stopped upon his lips.
"Go on, Emile," she said, "I am listening."
The expression which had startled him was gone. Had it ever been?
Perhaps he had been deceived by the darkness. Perhaps the moving
leaves had thrown their little shadows across her features. He said to
himself that it must be so--that his friend, Hermione, could never
have looked like that. Yet he was chilled. And he remembered her
passing by in the tram at Posilipo, and how he had stood for a moment
and watched her, and seen upon her face a furtive look that he had
never seen there before, and that had seemed to contradict her whole
nature as he knew it.
Did he know it?
Never before had he asked himself this question. He asked it now. Was
there living in Hermione some one whom he did not know, with whom he
had had no dealings, had exchanged no thoughts, had spoken no words?
"Go on, Emile," she said again.
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