She seemed to have cried her feeling away during the night—such as he had left unbruised and untorn. For the quivering flesh is only sensitive up to a certain point of maceration. He had trodden upon her pitilessly; but she felt no resentment. In fact, she would have been quite happy if he had put his arms round her and said, “Let us forget, Yvonne.” By the end of the journey she had cajoled herself into the idea that he would do so.
A suite of rooms received them in the quiet West End hotel where the Canon always stayed. They dined alone, the discreet butler waiting on them, for the Canon was an honoured guest. When the cloth was removed, the Canon said in his even voice:—
“Are you sufficiently recovered, Yvonne, to discuss this painful subject?”
“I am quite ready, Everard.”
“We will make it as short as possible. What I said last night must remain, whatever be the suffering. I have loved you deeply—like a young man—in a way perhaps ill befitting my years. The memories, for they are innocent, will always be there, Yvonne. If I did not seek strength from Elsewhere, it might wreck my life to part from you.”
Her hope was dashed to the ground. She interrupted him with one more appeal. “Why need we part, Everard?” she said, in a low voice. “I mean, why cannot we live in the same house—before the world—?”
“It is impossible,” he replied. “You don’t know what you are asking.”
His voice grew husky. He paused a few seconds, then, recovering himself continued in the same hard tones:—
“As we must live apart, it is my duty to make provision for you. I shall alter my will, securing to you what would have come to you as my wife. During my lifetime I shall make you an allowance in fair proportion to my means. And it will be, of course, unconditional.”
Then, for the first time, her gentle nature rose up in revolt against him.