She longed to open that book now, at once, to read what he had
written. She felt as if it would tell her very much. There was no
reason why she should not read it. The book was one that all might
see, was kept to be looked over by any chance visitor. She would go
one day, one evening, to the restaurant and see what Emile had
written. He would not mind. If she had asked him that night of course
he would have shown her the words. But she had not asked him. She had
been almost afraid of things that night. She remembered how the wind
had blown up the white table-cloth, her cold, momentary shiver of
fear, her relief when she had seen Gaspare walking sturdily into the
room.

And now, at once, this thought of Gaspare brought to her a sense of
relief again, of relief so great, so sharp--piercing down into the
very deep of her nature--that by it she was able to measure something,
her inward desolation at this moment. Yes, she clung to Gaspare,
because he was loyal, because he loved her, because he had loved
Maurice--but also because she was terribly alone.

Because he had loved Maurice! Had there been a time, really a time,
when she had possessed one who belonged utterly to her, who lived only
in and for her? Was that possible? To-day, with the fierceness of one
starving, she fastened upon this memory, her memory, hers only, shared
by no one, never shared by living or dead. That at least she had, and
that could never be taken from her. Even if Vere, her child, slipped
from her, if Emile, her friend, whose life she had saved, slipped from
her, the memory of her Sicilian was forever hers, the memory of his
love, his joy in their mutual life, his last kiss. Long ago she had
taken that kiss as a gift made to two--to her and to Vere unborn.
To-day, almost savagely, she took it to herself, alone, herself--