“Yes, it would be a pity to spoil her pleasure. She is such a child.”
“I wish we all had something of her nature,” said the Canon.
Mrs. Winstanley noted the snub. She was treasuring up many resentments against Yvonne. In her heart she considered herself a long-suffering woman.
“You seem to enjoy it too, Everard,” said Yvonne to him that evening. They were sitting near the entrance watching the smartly-dressed people. “And I am so glad to be alone with you.”
He was pleased, smiled at her, and throwing off his dignity, entered into the frivolous spirit of the place. Yvonne forgot the restraint she had always put upon her tongue when talking to him. She chattered about everything, holding her face near him, so as to be heard through the hubbub of thousands of voices, the eternal shuffling of passing feet, and the crash of the orchestra in the far gallery.
“It is a Revue des Deux Mondes,” she said, looking rapidly around her, with bright eyes.
“How?” asked the Canon.
“The beau and the demi,” she replied, wickedly. She shook his knee. “Oh, do look at that woman! what does she think a man can see in her!”
“Powder,” answered the Canon. “She has been using her puff too freely.”
“She has been putting it on with a muff,” cried Yvonne.