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Never before had he looked at Hermione quite as he looked at her
to-night. His sense of her strangeness woke up in him something that
was ill at ease, doubtful, almost even suspicious, but also something
that was quivering with interest.
For years this woman had been to him "dear Hermione," "ma pauvre
amie," comrade, sympathizer, nurse, mother of Vere.
Now--what else was she? A human creature with a heart and brain
capable of mystery; a soul with room in it for secret things; a temple
whose outside he had seen, but whose god, perhaps, he had never seen.
And Vere was involved in her mother's strangeness, and had her own
strangeness too. Of that he had been conscious before to-night. For
Vere was being formed. The plastic fingers were at work about her,
moulding her into what she must be as a woman.
But Hermione! She had been a woman so long.
Perhaps, too, she was standing on the brink of a precipice. That
suspicion, that fear, not to be banished by action, added to the
curiosity, as about an unknown land, that she aroused.


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