such as she knew
no one should ever feel--a humbleness that was contemptible, that felt
itself incapable, unworthy of notice. She tried to resist it, but when
she thought of this man, her friend, talking over her failure with her
child, in whom he must surely believe, she could not. She felt "Vere
can talk to Emile better than I can. She interests him more than I."
And then her years seemed to gather round her and whip her. She shrank
beneath the thongs of age, which had not even brought to her those gifts
of the mind with which it often partially replaces the bodily gifts and
graces it is so eager to remove.

"Hermione."

"Yes, Emile."

She turned slowly in her chair, forcing herself to face him.

"Are you sure you are not feeling ill?"

"Quite sure. Did you have a pleasant morning with Vere?"

"Yes. Oh"--he sat forward in his chair--"she told me something that
rather surprised me--that you had told her she might read my books."

"Well?"

Hermione's voice was rather hard.

"Well, I never meant them for 'la jeune fille.'"

"You consider Vere--"

"Is she not?"

She felt he was condemning her secretly for her permission to Vere. What
would he think if he knew her under-reason for giving it?

"You don't wish Vere to read your books, then?"

"No. And I ventured to tell her so."

Hermione felt hot.

"What did she say?"

"She said she would not read them."

"Oh."

She looked up and met his eyes, and was sure she read condemnation in
them.

"After I had told Vere--" she began.

She was about to defend herself, to tell him how she had gone to Vere's
room intending to withdraw the permission given; but suddenly she
realized clearly that she, a mother, was being secretly taken to task by
a man for her conduct to her child.

That was intolerable.

And Vere had yielded to Emile's prohibition, though she had eagerly
resisted her mother's attempt to retreat from the promise made. That was
more intolerable.

She sat without saying anything. Her knees were trembling under her thin
summer gown. Artois felt something of her agitation, perhaps, for he
said, with a kind of hesitating diffidence, very rare in him:

"Of course, my friend, I would not interfere between you and Vere,
only, as I was concerned, as they were my own writings that were in
question--" He broke off. "You won't misunderstand my motives?" he
concluded.

"Oh no."

He was more conscious that she was feeling something acutely.

"I