She had just entered, was lifting a plate of hot toast from the fender. She held it out threateningly with both hands.
“If it’s all dried up it is not my fault,” she scolded. “And oh! you know I don’t allow you to sit down in your shirt-sleeves!”
He made no reply, but took the plate mechanically from her and placed it on the table.
“What is the matter, Stephen?” she asked suddenly, scanning his face.
“Some one has called to see you, Yvonne.”
“Me?”
She looked at him for a puzzled moment. Then something in his face told her. She caught him by his shirt-sleeve.
“It can’t be Everard?” she cried, agitated.
“Yes. It is Everard.”
She grew deadly pale and her breath came fast.