“It seems simple,” said the Canon. “I can’t invite her to my own house, so I beg you to invite her to yours.”
“You are not going to do this for all the professionals engaged at the festival?”
“Of course not,” answered the Canon; “who is suggesting anything so absurd?”
“Then why make an exception of Madame Latour, who is not even singing the leading parts?”
“She is very delicate and requires comforts,” he replied. “If she is not taken care of, she may not be able to sing at all. Besides, it is my particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the privilege of expressing it to you.”
“I take it she is a very great friend of yours?”
“A very great friend,” said the Canon.
Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant possibilities. Certain weaknesses becoming apparent in her own impregnable position strongly tempted her to refuse. She bit her lip and looked at her manicured finger-nails.
“Come, you’re a woman of sense,” added the Canon, after a pause.
The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. She was a woman of sense. How absurd of her to have forgotten. An ironical smile played on her lips and lurked in her steel-grey eyes.