e sea, sinking out of his sight with his wild
heart of youth, while he, cold, calm, resolute man, was facing the steady
life befitting an Englishman, the life of work, of social duties, of
husband and father, with a money-making ambition and a stake in his
country.

"Perhaps you're right," Hermione said.

But there was a sound of disappointment in her voice. Till now Maurice
had always shared her Sicilian enthusiasms, had even run before them,
lighter-footed than she in the race towards the sunshine. It was
difficult to accommodate herself to this abrupt change.

"But don't let us think of going to-day," she added. "Remember--I have
only just come back."

"And I!" said Artois. "Be merciful to an invalid, Monsieur Delarey!"

He spoke lightly, but he felt fully conscious now that his suspicion was
well founded. Maurice was uneasy, unhappy. He wanted to get away from
this peace that held no peace for him. He wanted to put something behind
him. To a man like Artois, Maurice was a boy. He might try to be subtle,
he might even be subtle--for him. But to this acute and trained observer
of the human comedy he could not for long be deceptive.

During his severe illness the mind of Artois had often been clouded, had
been dispossessed of its throne by the clamor of the body's pain. And
afterwards, when the agony passed and the fever abated, the mind had been
lulled, charmed into a stagnant state that was delicious. But now it
began to go again to its business. It began to work with the old rapidity
that had for a time been lost. And as this power came back and was felt
thoroughly, very consciously by this very conscious man, he took alarm.
What affected or threatened Delarey must affect, threaten Hermione.
Whether he were one with her or not she was one with him. The feeling of
Artois towards the woman who had shown him such noble, such unusual
friendship was exquisitely delicate and intensely strong. Unmingled with
any bodily passion, it was, or so it seemed to him, the more delicate and
strong on that account. He was a man who had an instinctive hatred of
heroics. His taste revolted from them as it revolted from violence in
literature. They seemed to him a coarseness, a crudity of the soul, and
almost inevitably linked with secret falseness. But he was conscious that
to protect from sorrow or shame the woman who had protected him in his
dark hour he would be willing to make any sacrifice. There would be no
limit to what he