“Mercy, my dear! How white you are!”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” said Yvonne, trying to smile.
“It’s past our déjeuner hour,” said the Canon, briskly. “You want some food.”
“Perhaps I do,” said Yvonne.
She went with the Canon on to the digue, and walked along the shady side, by the hotels, past the gay terraces thronged with lunching guests. But all the glamour had gone from the place. An hour had changed it. And that hour seemed a black abyss separating her from happiness.
An hour ago she had looked upon this kind, grave man who walked by her side as her husband. Now what was he to her? She shrank from the thought, terrified, and came nearer to him, touching the flying skirt of his coat as if to take strength from him.
They entered the crowded dining-room, where the maître d’hôtel had reserved them a table. She struggled bravely through part of the meal, strove to keep up a conversation. But the strain was too great. Another five minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. She rose, with an excuse to the Canon, and escaped to her room.
There she flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the cool pillows. It was a relief to be alone with her fright and dismay. She strove to think, but her head was in a whirl. The incidents of the late scene came luridly before her mind, and she shivered with revulsion. A rough hand had been laid on the butterfly and brushed the dust from its wings.
The Canon came later to her room, kindly solicitous. Was she ill? Would she like to see a medical man? Should he sit with her? She clasped his hand impulsively and kissed it.
“You are too good to me. I am not worth it. I am not ill. It was the sun, I think. Let me lie down this afternoon by myself and I shall be better.”