nd softly over to the table and bent over the sheets.

At first she stood. Then she sat down. She took up the paper, handled
it, held it close to her eyes.

Verses! Vere was writing verses. Of course! Every one begins by being a
poet. Hermione smiled, almost laughed aloud. Poor little Vere with her
poor little secret! There was still that bitterness in the mother, that
sense of wrong. But she read on and on. And presently she started and
her hand shook.

She had come to a poem that was corrected in Vere's handwriting, and on
the margin was written, "Monsieur Emile's idea."

So there had been a conference, and Emile was advising Vere.

Hermione's hand shook so violently that she could not go on reading
for a moment, and she laid the paper down. She felt like one who has
suddenly unmasked a conspiracy against herself. It was useless for her
intellect to deny this conspiracy, for her heart proclaimed it.

Long ago Emile had told her frankly that it was in vain for her to waste
her time in creative work, that she had not the necessary gift for it.
And now he was secretly assisting her own child--a child of sixteen--to
do what he had told her, the mother, not to do. Why was he doing this?

Again the monstrous idea that she had forcibly dismissed from her mind
that day returned to Hermione. There is one thing that sometimes blinds
the most clear-sighted men, so that they cannot perceive truth.

But--Hermione again bent over the sheets of paper, this time seeking for
a weapon against the idea which assailed her. On several pages she found
emendations, excisions, on one a whole verse completely changed. And on
the margins were pencilled "Monsieur Emile's suggestion"; "Monsieur E.'s
advice"; and once, "These two lines invented by Monsieur Emile."

When had Vere and Emile had the opportunity for this long and secret
discussion? On the day of the storm they had been together alone. They
had had tea together alone. And on the night Emile dined on the island
they had been out in the boat together for a long time. All this must
have been talked over then.

Yes.

She read on. Had Vere talent? Did her child possess what she had longed
for, and had been denied? She strove to read critically, but she was
too excited, too moved to do so. All necessary calm was gone. She was
painfully upset. The words moved before her eyes, running upward in
irregular lines that resembled creeping things, and she saw rings of
light, yellow in t