alone, or to push a boat out into the centre of the Saint's Pool, and
lie in it with her hands clasped behind her head looking up at the
passing clouds or at the radiance of the blue.

Hermione knew how fond Vere was of reading, and supposed that this
love was increasing as the child grew older. She sometimes felt a
little lonely, but she was unselfish. Vere's freedom was quite
innocent. She, the mother, would not seek to interfere with it. Soon
after dinner on the evening of the Marchesino's expedition with
Artois, Vere had got up from the sofa, on which she had been sitting
with a book of Rossetti's poems in her hand, had gone over to one of
the windows, and had stood for two or three minutes looking out over
the sea. Then she had turned round, come up to her mother and kissed
her tenderly--more tenderly, Hermione thought, even than usual.

"Good-night, Madre mia," she had said.

And then, without another word, she had gone swiftly out of the room.

After Vere had gone the room seemed very silent. In the evening, if
they stayed in the house, they usually sat in Hermione's room up-
stairs. They had been sitting there to-night. The shutters were not
closed. The window that faced the sea towards Capri was open. A little
moonlight began to mingle subtly with the light from the two lamps, to
make it whiter, cleaner, suggestive of outdoor things and large
spaces. Hermione had been reading when Vere was reading. She did not
read now Vere was gone. Laying down her book she sat listening to the
silence, realizing the world without. Almost at her feet was the sea,
before her a wide-stretching expanse, behind her, confronted by the
desolate rocks, the hollow and mysterious caverns. In the night, the