u think it is that? Are you telling me the truth? Are you?"

"If she does not come down presently I will go up. Don't be afraid. I
will not leave you till she comes down."

Giulia returned, wiping her eyes. When he saw her Gaspare disappeared.
They knew he had gone to wait outside his Padrona's door.

The dinner passed almost in silence. Artois ate, and made Vere eat. Vere
sat in her mother's place, with her back to the door. Artois was facing
her. Often his eyes travelled to the door. Often, too, Vere turned her
head. And in the silence both were listening for a step that did not
come: Vere with a feverish eagerness, Artois with a mingling of longing
and of dread. For he knew he dreaded to see Hermione that night. He knew
that it would be terrible to him to meet her eyes, to speak to her,
to touch her hand. And yet he longed for her to come. For he was
companioned by a great and growing fear, which he must hide. And that
act of secrecy, undertaken for Vere's sake, seemed to increase the
thing he hid, till the shadow it had been began to take form, to grow in
stature, to become dominating, imperious.

Giulia put some fruit on the table. The meal was over, and there had
been no sound outside upon the stairs.

"Monsieur Emile, what are you going to do?"

"Go to the drawing-room, Vere. I will go out and see whether there is
any light in your mother's window."

She obeyed him silently and went away. Then he took his hat and went out
upon the terrace.

Gaspare had said that Hermione's room was dark. Perhaps he had been
mistaken. The key might have been so placed in the lock that he had been
deceived. As Artois walked to a point from which he could see one of
the windows of Hermione's bedroom, he knew that he longed to see a
light there. If the window was dark the form of his fear would be more
distinct. He reached the point and looked up. There was no light.

He stood there for some time gazing at that darkness. He thought of the
bent photograph frame, of the photograph that had been so loved torn
into fragments, of the sound that was--hardly crying, and of the face he
had seen for an instant as he drew near to the island. He ought to come
to some decision, to take some action. Vere was depending upon him. But
he felt as if he could do nothing. In answer to Vere's appeal he
had hastened to the island. And now he was paralyzed, he was utterly
useless.

He felt as if he dared not do anything. Hermione in her grief,