sea. She had been like some charming and unusual plant of the sea,
shot with sea colors, wet with sea winds, fresh with the freshness of
the smooth-backed waves. And now in a moment she was dropped into the
filthy dust of city horrors. What would be the result upon her and
upon her dawning gift?

The double question was in his mind, and quite honestly. For his
interest of the literary man in Vere was very vivid. Never yet had he
had a pupil or dreamed of having one. There are writers who found a
school, whose fame is carried forward like a banner by young and eager
hands. Artois had always stood alone, ardently admired, ardently
condemned, but not imitated. And he had been proud of his solitude.
But--lately--had not underthoughts come into his mind, thoughts of
leaving an impress on a vivid young intellect, a soul that was full of
life, and the beginnings of energy? Had not he dreamed, however
vaguely, of forming, like some sculptor of genius, an exquisite
statuette--poetry, in the slim form of a girl-child singing to the
world?

And now Peppina had rushed into Vere's life, with sobs and a tumult of
cries to the Madonna and the saints, and, no doubt, with imprecations
upon the wickedness of men. And where were the dreams of the sea? And
his dreams, where were they?

That night the irony that was in him woke up and smiled bitterly, and
he asked himself how he, with his burden of years and of knowledge of
life, could have been such a fool as to think it possible to guard any
one against the assaults of the facts of life. Hermione, perhaps, had
been wiser than he, and yet he could not help feeling something that
was almost like anger against her for what he called her quixotism.