"Yes--perhaps you would," she said, and she relapsed into silence. Clare's colour did not change. No particular person was in her thoughts, and she had, as it were, given her own general and inexperienced opinion of her own character, quite honestly and without affectation. "I don't know which are the happier," said Mrs. Bowring at last, "the people who change, or the people who can't." "You mean faithful or unfaithful people, I suppose," observed the young girl with grave innocence. A very slight flush rose in Mrs. Bowring's thin cheeks, and the quiet eyes grew suddenly hard, but Clare was busy with her work again and did not see. "Those are big words," said the older woman in a low voice. "Well--yes--of course!" answered Clare. "So they ought to be! It is always the main question, isn't it? Whether you can trust a person or not, I mean." "That is one question. The other is, whether the person deserves to be trusted." "Oh--it's the same thing!" "Not exactly." "You know what I mean, mother. Besides, I don't believe that any one who can't trust is really to be trusted. Do you?" "My dear Clare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bowring. "You can't put life into a nutshell, like that!" "No. I suppose not, though if a thing is true at all it must be always true." "Saving exceptions." "Are there any exceptions to truth?" asked Clare incredulously. "Truth isn't grammar--nor the British Constitution." "No. But then, we don't know everything. What we call truth is what we know. It is only what we know. All that we don't know, but which is, is true, too--especially, all that we don't know about people with whom we have to live." "Oh--if people have secrets!" The young girl laughed idly. "But you and I, for instance, mother--we have no secrets from each other, have we? Well? Why should any two people who love each other have secrets? And if they have none, why, then, they know all that there is to be known about one another, and each trusts the other, and has a right to be trusted, because everything is known--and everything is the whole truth. It seems to me that is simple enough, isn't it?" Mrs. Bowring laughed in her turn. It was rather a hard little laugh, but Clare was used to the sound of it, and joined in it, feeling that she had vanquished her mother in argument, and settled one of the most important questions of life for ever. "What a pretty steamer!" exclaimed Mrs. Bowring suddenly. "It's a yacht," said Clare after a moment. "The flag is English, too. I can see it distinctly." She laid down her work, and her mother closed her book upon her forefinger again, and they watched the graceful white vessel as she glided slowly in from the Conca, which she had rounded while they had been talking. "It's very big, for a yacht," observed Mrs. Bowring. "They are coming here." "They have probably come round from Naples to spend a day," said Clare. "We are sure to have them up here. What a nuisance!"