“I had been warned that you had gone to Fulminster on a begging errand—”
“Did the Rector have the iniquity to write you that?” burst in Joyce fiercely.
“It was not the Rector.”
“Who, then? I saw no one but him. I was simply seeking Madame Latour.”
“I name no names,” replied the Bishop, stiffly. “I am merely explaining. The letter, in fact, came by the same mail as yours. Little suspecting that you could address me on any subject unconnected with yourself, and keeping to my resolution to hold no further communication with you, I destroyed, as I say, your letter unopened. Believe me, the apology I tender to you—”
“Is neither here nor there,” said Joyce, coldly. “I am past feeling such slights. I suppose your correspondent was that she-devil Emmeline Winstanley. I congratulate you.” The Bishop made no reply, but paced backwards and forwards two or three times with bent head, along the book-lined shelves. Then he stopped and said abruptly:—
“Tell me the facts about Yvonne.”
The conciliatory mention of her by her Christian name thawed Joyce for the moment. He rapidly sketched events, while Everard listened, looking at him rigidly from under bent brows.
“I would have given the last drop of my blood rather than she should have suffered so.”
“So would I,” replied Joyce.