“Nom de Dieu!” cried Bazouge, stifling a guffaw before the austere decorum of the English churchman. “Ça? Oh, my poor Yvonne!” She shook hands rapidly with him and turned away. He bowed gracefully, including the new-comers in his salute. The Canon responded severely. Mrs. Winstanley stared at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette.
“We have been looking all over the place for you,” said the Canon, as they passed through the window into the salle des jeux, leaving Bazouge in the corner of the verandah.
“I’m sorry,” said Yvonne penitently.
“And who was that rakish-looking little Frenchman you were talking to?”
“An old friend—I used to know him,” said Yvonne, struggling with her agitation. “A friend of my first husband—I had to speak to him—we went there to be quiet. I could n’t help it, Everard, really I could n’t.”
“My dear child,” said the Canon, kindly, “I was not scolding you—though he did look rather undesirable.”
“I suppose you had to mix with all kinds of odd Bohemian people in your professional days?” said Mrs. Winstanley.
“Of course,” faltered Yvonne.
They went through the great hall. At the door they parted with Mrs. Winstanley, who was waiting for the Wilmingtons. “We will call for you on our way to the concert this afternoon,” said the Canon.
“Thanks,” said Mrs. Winstanley, and then, suddenly looking at Yvonne—