Vere sat in her mother's place, with her back to the door. Artois was
facing her. Often his eyes travelled to the door. Often, too, Vere
turned her head. And in the silence both were listening for a step
that did not come: Vere with a feverish eagerness, Artois with a
mingling of longing and of dread. For he knew he dreaded to see
Hermione that night. He knew that it would be terrible to him to meet
her eyes, to speak to her, to touch her hand. And yet he longed for
her to come. For he was companioned by a great and growing fear, which
he must hide. And that act of secrecy, undertaken for Vere's sake,
seemed to increase the thing he hid, till the shadow it had been began
to take form, to grow in stature, to become dominating, imperious.
Giulia put some fruit on the table. The meal was over, and there had
been no sound outside upon the stairs.
"Monsieur Emile, what are you going to do?"
"Go to the drawing-room, Vere. I will go out and see whether there is
any light in your mother's window.
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