She was growing up. She was passing from childhood into girlhood. She
was developing swiftly. That development fascinated me. Of course I
had always been very fond of Vere. But this summer she meant more to
me than she had meant. One day--it was the day I came back to the
island after my visit to Paris--"
"Yes?"
He looked at her, trying to read what she was feeling in her face, but
it was too dark for him to discern it.
"Vere made a confession to me. She told me she was working secretly,
that she was writing poems. I asked her to show them to me. She did
so. I found some talent in them, enough for me to feel justified in
telling her to continue. Once, Hermione, you consulted me. Then my
advice was different."
"I know."
"The remembrance of this, and Vere's knowledge that you had suffered
in not succeeding with work, prompted us to keep the matter of her
attempts to write a secret for the time. It seems a trifle--all this,
but looking back now I feel that we were quite wrong in not telling
you.
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