Youth is sanguine. Yvonne had reached the same conclusion as Tollemache; that, if money were really the root of all evil, the noxious growth that had sprung into such vigorous existence in Pont Aven since the feast of Saint Barbara might be torn out bodily.
But Ingersoll thought the discussion had gone far enough for the time. Certainly a settlement on reasonable lines might be effected; but it was impracticable to form anything in the nature of a fixed opinion until Yvonne and her mother had talked matters over in the light of full understanding. Something was gained in the fact that the last obstacle in the way of complete confidence between Yvonne and himself had been thrown down. His manner showed how beneficial this belief on his part might prove. He sprang up with a certain alertness of movement that was eloquent of new-born hope.
"No more talk tonight, Mignonne," he cried cheerfully. "Now that we know the worst, we can fight in the open side by side. Hitherto I have felt that I was treating you unfairly in withholding from your ken the most damaging item in your mother's catalogue of worries. Tell her what I have said. I want you to speak without reservation. Then, if she is equally candid, we shall know just where we stand, and whence the main attack may come."
Unhappily Yvonne was aware, when kissing her father goodnight, that the enemy was attacking already; but she held steadfast to the resolve not to disclose Raymond's brazen scheme at present. The day had produced sufficient wretchedness of spirit already.
So the two parted, and Yvonne, when safe in the solitude of her room, knelt and prayed that some ray of sunshine should pierce the gathering clouds. Then, in more tranquil mood, she forced her thoughts into a new channel by reading some pages of a biography of John Ruskin. By curious chance she came across a passage dealing with Ruskin's ill-fated love for Rosie La Touche, and containing a poignant passage in a letter he wrote to a friend:
"I wanted my Rosie here. In heaven I mean to go and talk with Pythagoras and Socrates and Valerius Publicola. I sha'n't care a bit for Rosie there; she needn't think it. What will grey eyes and red cheeks be good for there?"
Yvonne closed the book with a snap. That shaft from the bow so deftly wielded by a master archer had pierced her very heart. She loved Tollemache. She wanted her Lorry here. If any maleficent influence drove him from her, all the brightness and color would depart out of her life, a pleasant world grow cold and gray for evermore.
Then, being weary yet eminently healthy, she went to bed and slept dreamlessly, and was up betimes in the morning. It was pleasant to see the sun rising into a clear sky above the stunted trees crowning the Toulifot hill. The frosty weather, coming unusually early that year, had lasted far beyond the prescribed brief period of such cold snaps in December. There was little or no wind. It was an ideal day for a walk. Meaning to excuse herself from motoring, and wheedle her father into a long tramp after luncheon,—with Lorry, perchance, to disprove the infallibility of the adage that two is company and three is none,—she warned Mère Pitou that she would return for the midday meal.
"Ah, tcha!" said Madame testily. "What between one thing and another, I'm thinking of taking a holiday. Little Barbe could have done all the cooking needed in this house during the past week. Look at your father! Anyone would say I starved him. As for you, flying about and eating scraps and hashes in strange hotels, I'm surprised at you!"