, the strength, the courage that
belong to all who are worth anything in the world. And she called upon
herself. And it seemed to her that there was no voice that answered.

There was a hideous moment of drama.

She sat there quietly in her chair in the pretty room. And she called
again, and she listened--and again there was silence.

Then she was afraid. She had a strange and horrible feeling that she was
deserted by herself, by that which, at least, had been herself and on
which she had been accustomed to rely. And what was left was surely
utterly incapable, full of the flabby wickedness that seems to dwell in
weakness. It seemed to her that if any one who knew her well, if Vere,
Emile, or even Gaspare, had come into the room just then, the intruder
would have paused on the threshold amazed to see a stranger there. She
felt afraid to be seen and yet afraid to remain alone. Should she do
something definite, something defiant, to prove to herself that she had
will and could exercise it?

She got up, resolved to go to Vere. When she was there, with her child,
she did not know what she was going to do. She had said to Vere, "Keep
your secrets." What if she went now and humbled herself, explained
to the child quite simply and frankly a mother's jealousy, a widow's
loneliness, made her realize what she was in a life from which the
greatest thing had been ruthlessly withdrawn? Vere would understand
surely, and all would be well. This shadow between them would pass away.
Hermione had her hand on the door. But she did not open it. An imperious
reserve, autocrat, tyrant, rose up suddenly within her. She could never
make such a confession to Vere. She could never plead for her child's
confidence--a confidence already given to Emile, to a man. And now for
the first time the common curiosity to which she had not yet fallen a
victim came upon her, flooded her. What was Vere's secret? That it was
innocent, probably even childish, Hermione did not question even for a
moment. But what was it?

She heard a light step outside and drew back from the door. The step
passed on and died away down the paved staircase. Vere had gone out to
the terrace, the garden, or the sea.

Hermione again moved forward, then stopped abruptly. Her face was
suddenly flooded with red as she realized what she had been going to do,
she who had exclaimed that every one has a right to their freedom.

For an instant she had meant to go to Vere's room, to try