him, Signorina. He has never done me any harm."

"Of course not. Why should he?"

"I say--he has not."

"I like Ruffo."

"Lo so."

Again he looked at her with that curious expression in his eyes. Then he
said:

"Come, Signorina! It is getting late. We must go to the island."

And they pulled out round the point to the open sea.

During the hot weather the dwellers in the Casa del Mare made the siesta
after the mid-day meal. The awnings and blinds were drawn. Silence
reigned, and the house was still as the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty.
At the foot of the cliffs the sea slept in the sunshine, and it was
almost an empty sea, for few boats passed by in those hot, still hours.

To-day the servants were quiet in their quarters. Only Gaspare was
outside. And he, in shirt and trousers, with a white linen hat covering
his brown face, was stretched under the dwarf trees of the little
garden, in the shadow of the wall, resting profoundly after the labors
of the morning. In their respective rooms Hermione and Vere were
secluded behind shut doors. Hermione was lying down, but not sleeping.
Vere was not lying down. Generally she slept at this time for an hour.
But to-day, perhaps because of her nap in the cave, she had no desire
for sleep.

She was thinking about her mother. And Hermione was thinking of her.
Each mind was working in the midst of its desert space, its solitude
eternal.

What was growing up between them, and why was it growing?

Hermione was beset by a strange sensation of impotence. She felt as if
her child were drifting from her. Was it her fault, or was it no one's,
and inevitable? Had Vere been able to divine certain feelings in her,
the mother, obscure pains of the soul that had travelled to mind and
heart? She did not think it possible. Nor had it been possible for her
to kill those pains, although she had made her effort--to conceal them.
Long ago, before she was married to Maurice, Emile had spoken to them
of jealousy. At the time she had not understood it. She remembered
thinking, even saying, that she could not be jealous.

But then she had not had a child.

Lately she had realized that there were forces in her of which she
had not been aware. She had realized her passion for her child. Was it
strange that she had not always known how deep and strong it was?
Her mutilated life was more vehemently centred upon Vere than she had
understood. Of Vere she could be jealous. If Vere put any one b