Her mind fastened at once upon the day of the storm. On the night of
the storm, when she and Emile had been left alone in the restaurant,
she had felt almost afraid of him. But before then, in the afternoon
on the island, there had been something. They had not been always at
ease. She had been conscious of trying to tide over moments that were
almost awkward--once or twice, only once or twice. But that was the
day. Her woman's instinct told her so. That was the day on which Vere
had told Emile the secret she had kept from her mother. How excited
Vere had been, almost feverishly excited! And Emile had been very
strange. When the Marchesino and Vere went out upon the terrace, how
restless, how irritable he--

Suddenly Hermione sat up in her bed. The heat, the stillness, the
white cage of the mosquito net, the silence had become intolerable to
her. She pulled aside the net. Yes, that was better. She felt more
free. She would lie down outside the net. But the pillow was hot. She
turned it, but its pressure against her cheek almost maddened her, and
she got up, went across the room to the wash-stand and bathed her face
with cold water. Then she put some /eau de Cologne/ on her forehead,
opened a drawer and drew out a fan, went over to an arm-chair near the
window and sat down in it.

What had Emile written in the visitors' book at the Scoglio di Frisio?
With a strange abruptness, with a flight that was instinctive as that
of a homing pigeon, Hermione's mind went to that book as to a book of
revelation. Just before he wrote he had been feeling acutely--
something. She had been aware of that at the time. He had not wanted
to write. And then suddenly, almost violently, he had written and had
closed the book.