“If I thought you were going to adopt this tone, Everard, I should have kept my suspicions to myself.”
“I certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry. “It is an insult to Yvonne which I cannot permit. My wife is above suspicion.”
“Like Caesar’s,” said the lady with a curl of the lip. “Do you know that we are beginning to quarrel, Everard? It is slightly vulgar. I am your oldest friend, remember, and I am trying to acquit myself of a painful duty to you.”
“Duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will excuse my saying so,” replied the Canon.
“Oh, very well then, Everard,” she said hotly. “You can go on being a fool as long as you like. I saw your wife struggling in this man’s embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or three strange coincidences have been forced upon my notice. For your sake I have been excessively anxious. My conscience tells me I ought to take you into my confidence, and I can do no more. You can see the Christian name of this Bazouge in the Visitors’ List, and adopt what course of action you think fit. I wash my hands of the whole matter. And I must say that from the very beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with the greatest want of consideration.”
The Canon did not heed the peroration. He stood with the flimsy sheet clenched in his hand and regarded her sternly. She shrank a little, for her soul seemed to be naked.
“You have tried to ferret this out through spite against Yvonne. Whether the horrible thing you imply is true or not, I shall find it hard to forgive you.”
Mrs. Winstanley shrugged her shoulders. “In either case, you will come to your senses, I hope. Meanwhile, considering the present relations, it might be pleasanter not to meet at dinner to-night.”
“I am sorry to have to agree with you, Emmeline,” said the Canon.
She made him a formal bow and was leaving the room; but his voice stopped her.