now, she had not known. And for a moment she loved those little,
innocent secrets that she kept.

But then she thought again of her mother, the most beloved of all her
world. There had been in her mother's voice a sound of tragedy.

Vere stood for a long while by the window thinking.

The day was very hot. She longed to bathe, to wash away certain
perplexities that troubled her in the sea. But Gaspare was not on the
island. He had gone she knew not where. She looked at the sea with
longing. When would Gaspare be back? Well, at least she could go out
in the small boat. Then she would be near to the water. She ran down
the steps and embarked. At first she only rowed a little way out into
the Saint's Pool, and then leaned back against the white cushions, and
looked up at the blue sky, and let her hand trail in the water. But
she was restless to-day. The Pool did not suffice her, and she began
to paddle out along the coast towards Naples. She passed a ruined,
windowless house named by the fisherfolk "The Palace of the Spirits,"
and then a tiny hamlet climbing up from a minute harbor to an antique
church. Children called to her. A fisherman shouted: "Buon viaggio,
Signorina!" She waved her hand to them apathetically and rowed slowly
on. Now she had a bourne. A little farther on there was a small inlet
of the sea containing two caves, not gloomy and imposing like the
Grotto of Virgilio, but cosy, shady, and serene. Into the first of
them she ran the boat until its prow touched the sandy bottom. Then
she lay down at full length, with her hands behind her head on the
cushions, and thought--and thought.

Figures passed through her mind, a caravan of figures travelling as