“You are like a child-angel, asking if it has been good.”
“Oh, what a sweet, pretty thing to say!” cried Yvonne, gaily. “I shall always remember it, Canon Chisely. Now I know I sang nicely. And, you know, it’s almost like being in heaven to sing that part.”
“You called us all there to you,” said the Canon.
Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the sincerity of the compliment. Coming from Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There was an air of strength and dignity about his broad shoulders, his strongly-marked, thoughtful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that had always set him apart, in her estimation, from the other men with whom she came into contact. She never included him in her generalisations upon men and their strange ways. His profession and position, as well as his personality, put him into a category where her unremembered father, and Mr. Gladstone, and the great throat-surgeon whom she had once consulted, vaguely figured. She was always conscious of being on her very best behaviour while talking to him.
The Canon glanced at his friends. They were conversing animatedly, as if in no great hurry to depart. So he leant back against the platform and lingered a while with Yvonne.
“You must take care not to catch cold,” he said, after a while. “I believe it’s a horrid evening.”
“Oh, don’t fear. I shall be all right tomorrow,” said Yvonne.
“I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, though any hitch then would be a misfortune, certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your throat is already relaxed.”
“You mustn’t spoil me, Canon Chisely. I am used to going out in all kinds of weather. I have to, you know.”
“I wish you had n’t. You are far too fragile.”