He laughed. Yvonne had such a triumphant air in delivering herself of little witticisms.
A magnificently dressed woman, in a great feathered hat and low-dress, with diamonds gleaming at her neck, passed by. “You are right, I fear, about the two worlds,” said the Canon.
“Are n’t there crowds of them? I like to look at them because they wear such beautiful things. And they fit so. And then to rub shoulders with them makes one feel so delightfully wicked. You know, I knew a girl once—she went in for that life of her own accord and she was awfully happy. Really. Is n’t it odd?”
“My dear Yvonne!” said the Canon, somewhat shocked, “I sincerely trust you did not continue the acquaintance, afterwards.”
“Oh, no,” she replied, sagely. “It would not have done for me at all. A lone woman can’t be too careful. But I used to hear about her from my dressmaker.”
Her point of view was not exactly the Canon’s. But further discussion was stopped by the arrival of the Wilmingtons, who carried off Yvonne to the dancing-room. The Canon, drawing the line at his own appearance there, strolled back contentedly to the hotel to finish the evening over a book.
Two mornings afterwards Yvonne was walking by herself along the digue. They were to leave for Switzerland the next day, and she determined to make the most of her remaining time. Sophia Wilmington, for whom she had called, had already gone out. The Canon, who was engaged over his correspondence, she was to meet later at the Kursaal. It was a lovely morning. The line of white hotels, with their al fresco breakfast tables spread temptingly on the terraces, gleamed in the sun. The digue was bright with summer dresses. The sands below alive with tennis players, children making sand-castles, and loungers, and bathers, and horses moving among the bathing-machines. Yvonne tripped along with careless tread. Her heart was in harmony with the brightness and movement and the glint of the sun on the sea. Once a man, meeting her smiling glance, hesitated as if to speak to her, but seeing that the smile was addressed to the happy world in general, he passed on his way. It was easy to kill time. She went down the Rue Flammande and looked at the shops. The jewelry and the models of Paris dresses delighted her. The display of sweets at Nopenny’s allured her within. When she returned to the digue, it was time to seek the Canon at the Kursaal.
The liveried attendants lifted their hats as she ran up the steps and passed the barrier. She gave them a smiling “bonjour.” Neither the Canon nor any of the friends being visible on the verandah, she entered the great hall, where the morning instrumental concert was going on. She scanned the talking, laughing crowd as she passed through. Many eyes followed her. For Yvonne, when happy, was sweet to look upon. She was turning back to retrace her steps, when, suddenly, a man started up from a group of three who were playing cards and drinking absinthe at a small table, and placed himself before her.
“Tiens! c’est Yvonne!”
She stared at him with dilated eyes and parted lips and uttered a little gasping cry. Seeing her grow deadly white and thinking she was going to faint, the man put out his arm. But Yvonne was mistress of herself.