he was even thankful, to know that her friend, was going
to spend the summer on the Bay. She blamed herself for her melancholy,
telling herself that there was nothing in the words of Artois to make
her feel sad. Yet she continued to feel sad, to feel as if some grievous
change were at hand, as if she had returned to the island to confront
some untoward fate. It was very absurd of her. She told herself that.

The excursion to Capri had been a cheerful one. She had enjoyed it. But
all the time she had been watching Vere, studying her, as she had not
watched and studied her before. Something had suddenly made her feel
unaccustomed to Vere. It might be the words of Gaspare, the expression
in the round eyes of the Marchesino, or something new, or newly
apparent, in Vere. She did not know. But she did know that now the
omission of Artois to mention Vere in his letter seemed to add to the
novelty of the child for her.

That seemed strange, yet it was a fact. How absolutely mysterious are
many of the currents of our being, Hermione thought. They flow far off
in subterranean channels, unseen by us, and scarcely ever realized,
but governing, carrying our lives along upon their deeps towards the
appointed end.

Gaspare saw that his Padrona was not quite as usual, and looked at her
with large-eyed inquiry, but did not at first say anything. After tea,
however, when Hermione was sitting alone in the little garden with a
book, he said to her bluntly:

"Che ha Lei?"

Hermione put the book down in her lap.

"That is just what I don't know, Gaspare."

"Perhaps you are not well."

"But I believe I am, perfectly well. You know I am always well. I never
even have fever. And you have that sometimes."

He continued to look at her searchingly.

"You have something."

He said it firmly, almost as if he were supplying her with information
which she needed and had lacked.

Hermione made a sound that was like a little laugh, behind which there
was no mirth.

"I don't know what it is."

Then, after a pause, she added that phrase which is so often upon
Sicilian lips:

"Ma forse e il destino."

Gaspare moved his head once as if in acquiescence.

"When we are young, Signora," he said, "we do what we want, but we have
to want it. And we think we are very free. And when we are old we don't
feel to want anything, but we have to do things just the same. Signora,
we are not free. It is all destiny."

And again he moved his head so