an't do that, Hermione."

She looked at him almost as if she were startled.

"Why not? I always rely--"

"No, no. This is not a man's business, my business."

He spoke with an odd brusqueness, and there were traces of agitation in
his face. Hermione did not at all understand what feeling was prompting
him, but again, as on the previous evening, she felt as if there were a
barrier between them--very slight, perhaps, very shadowy, but definite
nevertheless. There was no longer complete frankness in their relations.
At moments her friend seemed to be subtly dominated by some secret
irritation, or anxiety, which she did not comprehend. She had been aware
of it yesterday. She was aware of it now. After his last exclamation she
said nothing.

"You are going to this girl now?" he asked.

"I mean to. Yes, I shall go."

She sat still for a minute, looking down at the pink-and-yellow carpet.

"And what will you do?"

She looked up at him.

"I think I shall take her to the island. I am almost sure I shall.
Emile, I don't believe in cowardice, and I sometimes think I am inclined
to be a coward about Vere. She is growing up. She will be seventeen
this year, very soon. There are girls who marry at sixteen, even English
girls."

"That is true."

She could gather nothing from his tone; and now his face was perfectly
calm.

"My instinct is to keep Vere just as she is, to preserve the loveliness
of childhood in her as long as possible, to keep away from her all
knowledge of sin, sorrow, the things that distract and torture the
world. But I mustn't be selfish about Vere. I mustn't keep her wrapped
in cotton wool. That is unwholesome. And, after all, Vere must have her
life apart from me. Last night I realized that strongly."

"Last night?"

"Yes, from the way in which she treated the Marchese, and later
from something else. Last night Vere showed two sides of a woman's
nature--the capacity to hold her own, what is vulgarly called 'to keep
her distance,' and the capacity to be motherly."

"Was Vere motherly to the Marchesino, then?" asked Artois, not without
irony.

"No--to Ruffo."

"That boy? But where was he last night?"

"When we got back to the island, and the launch had gone off, Vere and I
stood for a minute at the foot of the steps to listen to the roaring of
the sea. Vere loves the sea."

"I know that."

As he spoke he thought of something that Hermione did not know.

"The pool was protected, and unde