Hermione, too, was fascinated by its situation, the loneliness, the
wildness, yet the radiant cheerfulness of it. She made inquiries,
found that it was owned by a Neapolitan who scarcely ever went there,
and eventually succeeded in getting it on a long lease. For two years
now she and Vere had spent the summer there.

Artois had noticed that since Hermione had been in the Casa del Mare
an old desire had begun to revive in her. She spoke more frequently of
Sicily. Often she stood on the rock and looked across the sea, and he
knew that she was thinking of those beloved coasts--of the Ionian
waters, of the blossoming almond-trees among the olives and the rocks,
of the scarlet geraniums glowing among the thorny cactus, of the giant
watercourses leading up into the mountains. A hunger was awake in her,
now that she had a home so near the enchanted island.

He realized it. But he was no longer much afraid. So many years had
passed that even if Hermione revisited Marechiaro he believed there
would be little or no danger now of her ever learning the truth. It
had never been known in the village, and if it had been suspected, all
the suspicions must have long ago died down. He had been successful in
his protection. He was thankful for that. It was the one thing he had
been able to do for the friend who had done so much for him.

The tragedy had occurred because of him. Because of him all knowledge
of it had been kept from Hermione, and would now be kept from her
forever--because of him and Gaspare.

This he had been able to do. But how powerless he was, and how
powerless was Vere!