upon which he was engaged. He
explained the progress he had made during the days when he was absent
from the island and shut perpetually in his room. She listened in
perfect silence.

They were sitting near each other, but not close together, for Vere had
been between them. It was dark under the fig-trees. They could see each
other's faces, but not quite clearly. There was a small breeze which
made the trees move, and the leaves rustled faintly now and then, making
a tiny noise which joined the furtive noise of the sea, not far below
them.

Artois talked on. As his thoughts became more concentrated upon the book
he grew warmer. Having always had Hermione's eager, even enthusiastic
sympathy and encouragement in his work, he believed himself to have them
now. And in his manner, in his tone, even sometimes in his choice of
words, he plainly showed that he assumed them. But presently, glancing
across at Hermione, he was surprised by the expression on her face.
It seemed to him as if a face of stone had suddenly looked bitterly
satirical. He was so astonished that the words stopped upon his lips.

"Go on, Emile," she said, "I am listening."

The expression which had startled him was gone. Had it ever been?
Perhaps he had been deceived by the darkness. Perhaps the moving leaves
had thrown their little shadows across her features. He said to himself
that it must be so--that his friend, Hermione, could never have looked
like that. Yet he was chilled. And he remembered her passing by in the
tram at Posilipo, and how he had stood for a moment and watched her, and
seen upon her face a furtive look that he had never seen there before,
and that had seemed to contradict her whole nature as he knew it.

Did he know it?

Never before had he asked himself this question. He asked it now. Was
there living in Hermione some one whom he did not know, with whom he had
had no dealings, had exchanged no thoughts, had spoken no words?

"Go on, Emile," she said again.

But he did not. For once his brain was clouded, and he felt confused. He
had completely lost the thread of his thoughts.

"I can't," he said, abruptly.

"Why not?"

"I've forgotten. I've not thoroughly worked the thing out. Another time.
Besides--besides, I'm sure I bore you with my eternal talk about my
work. You've been such a kind, such a sympathetic friend and encourager
that--"

He broke off, thinking of that face. Was it possible that through
all these years H