the body. Now, she was sure of it, body had reacted on
mind.

Yet she had not been ill.

She felt unequal to the battle of pros and cons that was raging within
her.

"I'll be quiet," she thought. "I'll read."

And she took up a book.

She read steadily for an hour, understanding thoroughly all she read,
and wondering how she had ever fancied she cared about reading. Then
she laid the book down and looked at the clock. It was nearly four. Tea
would perhaps refresh her. And after tea? She had loved the island,
but to-day she felt almost as if it were a prison. What was there to be
done? She found herself wondering for the first time how she had managed
to "get through" week after week there. And in a moment her wonder made
her realize the inward change in her, the distance that now divided her
from Vere, the gulf that lay between them.

A day with a stranger may seem long, but a month with a friend how
short! To live with Vere had been like living with a part of herself.
But now what would it be like? And when Emile came, and they three were
together?

When Hermione contemplated that reunion, she felt that it would be
to her intolerable. And yet she desired it. For she wanted to know
something, and she was certain that if she, Vere, and Emile could be
together, without any fourth person, she would know it.

A little while ago, when she had longed for bracing action, she had
resolved to ask Emile to meet the Marchesino. She had felt as if that
meeting would clear the air, would drive out the faint mystery which
seemed to be encompassing them about. The two men, formerly friends,
were evidently in antagonism now. She wanted to restore things to
their former footing, or to make the enmity come out into the open, to
understand it thoroughly, and to know if she and Vere had any part in
it. Her desire had been to throw open windows and let in light.

But now things were changed. She understood, she knew more. And she
wanted to be alone with Emile and with Vere. Then, perhaps, she would
understand everything.

She said this to herself quite calmly. Her mood was changed. The fire
had died down in her, and she felt almost sluggish, although still
restless. The monstrous idea had come to her again. She did not
vehemently repel it. By nature she was no doubt an impulsive. But now
she meant to be a watcher. Before she took up her book and began to read
she had been, perhaps, almost hysterical, had been plunged in a welte