Vere to say, but her question
seemed to strike his mind like a soft blow, it was so unforeseen.

"No," he answered.

She was silent. It was too dark for him to see her face at all clearly.
He had only a vague general impression of her, of her slightness,
vitality, youth, and half-dreamy excitement.

"Why do you ask me?"

"Giulia said to me this evening that she was sure the new servant had
the evil eye."

"Peppina?"

"Yes, that is her name."

"Have you seen her?"

"No, not yet. It's odd, but I feel as if I would rather not."

"Have you any reason for such a feeling?"

"I don't think so. Poor thing! I know she has a dreadful scar. But I
don't believe it's that. It's just a feeling I have."

"I dare say it will have gone by the time we get back to the island."

"Perhaps. It's nice and dark here."

"Do you like darkness, Vere?"

"Sometimes. I do now."

"Why?"

"Because I can talk better and be less afraid of you."

"Vere! What nonsense! You are incapable of fear."

She laughed, but the laugh sounded serious, he thought.

"Real fear--perhaps. But you don't know"--she paused--"you don't know
how I respect you."

There was a slight pressure on the last words.

"For all you've done, what you are. I never felt it as I have just
lately, since--since--you know."

Artois was conscious of a movement of his blood.

"I should be a liar if I said I am not pleased. Tell me about the work,
Vere--now we are in the dark."

And then he heard the revelation of the child, there under the weary
rock, as he had heard the revelation of the mother. How different it
was! Yet in it, too, there was the beating of the pulse of life. But
there was no regret, no looking back into the past, no sombre exhibition
of force seeking--as a thing groping, desperately in a gulf--an object
on which to exercise itself. Instead there was aspiration, there was
expectation, there was the wonder of bright eyes lifted to the sun. And
there was a reverence that for a moment recalled to Artois the reverence
of the dead man from whose loins this child had sprung. But Vere's was
the reverence of understanding, not of a dim amazement--more beautiful
than Maurice's. When he had been with Hermione under the brooding rock
Artois had been impregnated with the passionate despair of humanity,
and had seen for a moment the world with out-stretched hands, seeking,
surely, for the nonexistent, striving to hold fast the mirage. Now
he was impregnate