having written your books!" she said.

"I don't know--I don't know. But I think the happy confidence, the
sweet respect of youth, makes one regret a thousand things. Don't you,
Hermione? Don't you think youth is often the most terrible tutor age can
have?"

She thought of Ruffo singing, "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate"--and
suddenly she felt that she could not stay any longer with Artois just
then. She got up.

"I don't feel very well," she said.

Artois sprang up and came towards her with a face full of concern. But
she drew back.

"I didn't sleep last night--and then going into Naples--I'll go to my
room and lie down. I'll keep quiet. Vere will look after you. I'll be
down at tea."

She went away before he could say or do anything. For some time he was
alone. Then Vere came. Hermione had not told her of the episode, and she
had only come because she thought the pretended siesta had lasted long
enough. When Artois told her about her mother, she wanted to run away
at once, and see what was the matter--see if she could do something. But
Artois stopped her.

"I should leave her to rest," he said. "I--I feel sure she wishes to be
alone."

Vere was looking at him while he spoke, and her face caught the gravity
of his, reflected it for a moment, then showed an uneasiness that
deepened into fear. She laid her hand on his arm.

"Monsieur Emile, what is the matter with Madre?"

"Only a headache, I fancy. She did not sleep last night, and--"

"No, no, the real matter, Monsieur Emile."

"What do you mean, Vere?"

The girl looked excited. Her own words had revealed to her a feeling of
which till then she had only been vaguely aware.

"Madre has seemed different lately," she said--"been different. I am
sure she has. What is it?"

As the girl spoke, and looked keenly at him with her bright, searching
eyes, a thought came, like a flash, upon Artois--a thought that almost
frightened him. He could not tell it to Vere, and almost immediately he
thrust it away from his mind. But Vere had seen that something had come
to him.

"You know what it is!" she said.

"I don't know."

"Monsieur Emile!"

Her voice was full of reproach.

"Vere, I am telling you the truth," he said, earnestly. "If there is
anything seriously troubling your mother I do not know what it is. She
has sorrows, of course. You know that."

"This is something fresh," the girl said. She thrust forward her little
chin decisively. "This is som