“But what is their place?” asked Yvonne, pathetically. “I never know. That is why I wish they were women. Oh, I love so being here with you, Dina. I wish I had a lot of women friends that I could talk to when I can’t see you. But you’re the only real woman friend I ’ve got.”
“You dear little mite!” exclaimed Geraldine, with sudden impulse. “I can’t see why women don’t take to you. And I can understand all the men falling in love with you. Even the Canon.”
“Oh, how can you say such a thing?” cried Yvonne, quickly, the colour coming into her cheeks.
“By reason of the intelligence that God has given me, my dear,” replied Geraldine. “I would send him packing if I were you.”
“It is very kind indeed of a man like that to come and see me.”
“And to pick you out from among all the concert singers in London for his musical festival?”
“But we’re old friends, Dina. He is only doing me a good turn.”
“So as to deserve another, you simple darling. In the meantime, I wouldn’t encourage Vandeleur or your new protégé, the Canon’s unmentionable cousin.”
“You know, I once thought there was something between you and Van,” remarked Yvonne, with guileless inconsequence.
“Rubbish!” said Miss Vicary. And then she added, rising hastily, after a moment’s silence, “Look, you are getting chilly in this cold wind,—and I am sure you have next to nothing underneath.”