savage something, desperate
and therefore arbitrary, said within her:

"I will keep the little that I have: I will--I will."

"The little!" Had she said that? It was wicked of her to say that. But
she had had the wonderful thing. She had held for a brief time the magic
of the world within the hollow of her hands, within the shadow of her
heart. And the others? Children slip from their parents' lives into the
arms of another whose call means more to them than the voices of those
who made them love. Friends drift away, scarcely knowing why, divided
from each other by the innumerable channels that branch from the main
stream of existence. Even a faithful servant cannot be more than a
friend.

There is one thing that is great, whose greatness makes the smallness
of all the other things. And so Hermione said, "the little that I have,"
and there was truth in it. And there was as vital a truth in the fact
of her whole nature recognizing that little's enormous value to her. Not
for a moment did she underrate her possession. Indeed, she had to fight
against the tendency to exaggeration. Her intellect said to her that,
in being so deeply moved by such a thing as the concealment from her by
Vere of something innocent of which Emile knew, she was making a water
drop into an ocean. Her intellect said that. But her heart said no.

And the voice of her intellect sank away like the frailest echo that
ever raised its spectral imitation of a reality. And the voice of her
heart rang out till it filled her world.

And so the argument was over.

She thought she heard a step below, and looked out of the window into
the sunshine.

Gaspare was there. It was his hour of repose, and he was smoking a
cigarette. He was dressed in white linen, without a coat, and had a
white linen hat on his head. He stood near the house, apparently looking
out to sea. And his pose was meditative. Hermione watched him. The sight
of him reminded her of another question she wished to ask.

Gaspare had one hand in the pocket of his white trousers. With the other
he held the cigarette. Hermione saw the wreaths of pale smoke curling
up and evaporating in the shining, twinkling air, which seemed full of
joyous, dancing atoms. But presently his hand forgot to do its work. The
cigarette, only half smoked, went out, and he stood there as if plunged
in profound thought. Hermione wondered what he was thinking about.

"Gaspare!"

She said it softly. Evidently he d