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Now her face was almost as usual, only less animated
than he had seen it.
"Your work could never bore me. You know it," she said.
The real Hermione sounded in her voice when she said that, for the
eternal woman deep down in her had heard the sound almost of
helplessness in his voice, had felt the leaning of his nature, strong
though it was, on her, and had responded instantly, inevitably, almost
passionately. But then came the thought of his secret intercourse with
Vere. She saw in the dark words: "Monsieur Emile's idea." "Monsieur
Emile's suggestion." She remembered how Artois had told her that she
could never be an artist. And again the intensely bitter feeling of
satire, that had set in her face the expression which had startled
him, returned, twisting, warping her whole nature.
"I am to encourage you--you who have told me that I can do nothing!"
That was what she had been feeling. And, as by a search-light, she had
seen surely for a moment the whole great and undying selfishness of
man, exactly as it was.


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