father. She had "thrown back" to the Sicilian ancestor, as he had. She
had the Southern eyes, the Southern grace, the Southern vivacity and
warmth that had made him so attractive. But Artois divined a certain
stubbornness in Vere that had been lacking in the dead man, a
stubbornness that took its rise not in stupidity but in a secret
consciousness of force.

Vere, Artois thought, might be violent, but would not be fickle. She
had a loyalty in her that was Sicilian in its fervor, a sense of
gratitude such as the contadini have, although by many it is denied to
them; a quick and lively temper, but a disposition that responded to
joy, to brightness, to gayety, to sunlight, with a swiftness, almost a
fierceness, that was entirely un-English.

Her father had been the dancing Faun. She had not, could never have
his gift of thoughtlessness. For she had intellect, derived from
Hermione, and an old truthfulness that was certainly not Sicilian.
Often there were what Artois called "Northern Lights" in her
sincerity. The strains in her, united, made, he thought, a fascinating
blend. But as yet she was undeveloped--an interesting, a charming
child, but only a child. In many ways she was young for her age.
Highly intelligent, she was anything rather than "knowing." Her
innocence was like clear water in a spring. The graciousness of youth
was hers to the full.

As Artois thought of it he was conscious, as of a new thing, of the
wonderful beauty of such innocent youth.

It was horrible to connect it with suffering. And yet that link in the
chain did exist. Vere had not something that surely she ought to have,