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He turned again to Hermione, but such conversation as theirs, and
indeed all serious conversation, now seemed to him heavy, portentous,
almost ludicrous. The young alone knew how to deal with life, chasing
it as a child chases a colored air-ball, and when it would sink, and
fall and be inert, sending it with a gay blow soaring once more
towards the blue.
Perhaps Hermione had a similar thought, or perhaps she knew of it in
him. At any rate, for a moment she had nothing to say. Nor had he. And
so, tacitly excluded, as it seemed, from the merriment of the young
ones, the two elders remained looking towards each other in silence,
sunk in a joint exile.
Presently Artois began to fidget with his bread. He pulled out some of
the crumb from his roll, and pressed it softly between his large
fingers, and scattered the tiny fragments mechanically over the table-
cloth near his plate. Hermione watched his moving hand. The Marchesino
was talking now. He was telling Vere about a paper-chase at
Capodimonte, which had started from the Royal Palace.


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