She glanced at him affectionately as she spoke. It was good of him to tarry for her sake in this Vanity Fair of a place.
“We were going by Calais, as you know,” said the Canon, explanatively to Mrs. Winstanley. “We only changed our minds a day or two ago—we thought it would be a little surprise for you.”
“Of course it is—a delightful one—to see dear Yvonne and yourself. Where are you staying?”
“At the Océan,” said the Canon, “and you must all come and dine with us this evening.”
“And will you come to the bal here afterward?” asked Sophia. “Evan has run across some college friends—or won’t you think it proper?”
“I am going to wear the whole suit of motley while I am here,” replied the Canon gaily.
He kept his word, not being a man of half measures. No check should be placed on Yvonne’s enjoyment. She had been moping, as far as Yvonne could mope, during the latter dullness of Fulminster; now she expanded like a flower to the gaiety around her. The Canon found an aesthetic pleasure in watching her happiness. Her expressions of thanks too were charmingly conveyed. Since that unfortunate attempt on his part, over a twelvemonth back, to instruct her in the responsibilities of her position, she had never exhibited toward him such spontaneous feeling. He let her smile upon whom she would, without a twinge of jealousy.
Yvonne enjoyed herself hugely. She danced and jested with the young men; she chattered in French to her table d’hôte neighbours, delighted to speak her mother’s tongue again; she staked two-franc pieces on the public table, and one afternoon came out of the gaming-room into the great hall where the Canon was sitting with Mrs. Winstanley, and poured a great mass of silver on to the table—as much as her two small hands joined could carry.
“I thought gambling was against your principles, Everard,” said Mrs. Winstanley, after Yvonne had gone again.
“I am sacrificing them for my wife’s happiness, Emmeline,” he replied, with a touch of irony.