“I hope you are keeping your eyes very wide open, Everard,” she said, in a whisper.
The Canon took her literally and so regarded her. But she smiled and put her hand on his sleeve.
“She is quite charming and all of that, I grant. But she is very much deeper than she looks.”
“Really, my dear Emmeline—” he began, drawing himself up.
“Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a wise woman so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and look before you leap.”
“I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon, stiffly.
Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham.
But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards his right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his study fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is the worst of keeping a consultant cousin—a woman of sense. Her advice may save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause you bad quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the sense on such occasions; or vice versa. Hitherto Emmeline had been infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case, drew from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk handkerchief. And then, having put on the sourdine, so as not to disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,” with considerable taste and execution.
Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did not hear him.