ermione had been playing a part with him, had been
pretending to admire his talent, to care for what he was doing, when
really she had been bored by it? Had the whole thing been a weariness to
her, endured perhaps because she liked him as a man? The thought cut him
to the very quick, seared his self-respect, struck a blow at his pride
which made it quiver, and struck surely also a blow at something else.

His life during all these years--what would it have been without
Hermione's friendship? Was he to learn that now?

He looked at her. Now her face was almost as usual, only less animated
than he had seen it.

"Your work could never bore me. You know it," she said.

The real Hermione sounded in her voice when she said that, for
the eternal woman deep down in her had heard the sound almost of
helplessness in his voice, had felt the leaning of his nature, strong
though it was, on her, and had responded instantly, inevitably, almost
passionately. But then came the thought of his secret intercourse with
Vere. She saw in the dark words: "Monsieur Emile's idea." "Monsieur
Emile's suggestion." She remembered how Artois had told her that she
could never be an artist. And again the intensely bitter feeling of
satire, that had set in her face the expression which had startled him,
returned, twisting, warping her whole nature.

"I am to encourage you--you who have told me that I can do nothing!"

That was what she had been feeling. And, as by a search-light, she had
seen surely for a moment the whole great and undying selfishness of man,
exactly as it was. And she had seen surely, also, the ministering world
of women gathered round about it, feeding it, lest it should fail and be
no more. And she had seen herself among them!

"Where can Vere have gone to?" he said.

There had been a pause. Neither knew how long it had lasted.

"I should not wonder if she is on the cliff," said Hermione. "She often
goes there at this hour. She goes to meet Ruffo."

The name switched the mind of Artois on to a new and profoundly
interesting train of thought.

"Ruffo," he began slowly. "And you think it wise--?"

He stopped. To-night he no longer dared frankly to speak his mind to
Hermione.

"I was at Mergellina the other day," he said. "And I saw Ruffo with his
mother."

"Did you. What is she like?"

"Oh, like many middle-aged women of the South, rather broad and
battered-looking, and probably much older in appearance than in years.