h he shows himself to others."

"I think if I knew Monsieur Emile for centuries I should always wonder
about him."

"What is it in Emile that makes you wonder?" asked her mother, with a
real curiosity.

"The same thing that makes me wonder when I look at a sleepy lion."

"You call Emile sleepy!" said Hermione.

"Oh, not his intellect, Madre! Of course that is horribly, horribly wide
awake."

And Vere ran off to her room, or the garden, or the Saint's Pool--who
knew where?--leaving her mother to say to herself, as she had already
said to herself in these last days of the growing summer, "When I said
that to Emile, what a fool I was!" She was thinking of her statement
that there was nothing in her child that was hidden from her. As if in
answer to that statement, Vere was unconsciously showing to her day by
day the folly of it. Emile had said nothing. Hermione remembered that,
and realized that his silence had been caused by his disagreement. But
why had he not told her she was mistaken? Perhaps because she had just
been laying bare to him the pain that was in her heart. Her call had
been for sympathy, not merely for truth. She wondered whether she was
a coward. Since they had returned from Capri the season and Vere had
surely changed. Then, and always afterwards, Hermione thought of those
three days in Capri as a definite barrier, a dividing line between two
periods. Already, while in Capri, she had begun to watch her child in
a new way. But that was, perhaps, because of an uneasiness, partly
nervous, within herself. In Capri she might have been imagining. Now she
was not imagining, she was realizing.

Over the sea came to the islet the intensity of summer. Their world was
changing. And in this changing world Vere was beginning to show forth
more clearly than before her movement onward--whither?

As yet the girl herself was unconscious of her mother's new
watchfulness. She was happy in the coming of summer, and in her
happiness was quite at ease, like a kitten that stretches itself
luxuriously in the sun. To Vere the world never seemed quite awake
till the summer came. Only in the hot sunshine did there glow the
truthfulness and the fulness of life. She shared it with the ginestra.
She saw and felt a certain cruelty in the gold, but she did not fear
or condemn it, or wish it away. For she was very young, and though
she spoke of cruelty she did not really understand it. In it there was
force, and force already a