They joined the group, where Yvonne received her congratulations and compliments with childish pleasure. In a few moments they separated, and the Canon drove off, regarding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical feelings.
Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a cigarette in Miss Vicary’s hotel sitting-room. As Yvonne’s friends, they had been dining with Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed with her urbanity, and sang her praises with Celtic hyperbole.
“I should n’t trust her further than I could see her,” said Geraldine. “She hangs up her smile every night on her dressing-table.”
“Just hear a woman, now,” said the Irishman.
“Yes, just hear a woman,” retorted Geraldine, sarcastically. “I suppose you think she loves Yvonne, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I’m sure she’s thinking how sweet she is this very minute.”
“She would like to be poisoning Yvonne this very minute.”
“Well, I’m blest!” exclaimed Vandeleur, letting the match die out with which he was preparing to light a fresh cigarette. “It takes a woman to imagine gratuitous devilry!”
“And it takes a man to absorb himself in his dinner to the besotting of his intelligence! But I have eyes. And a logical mind—don’t tell me I have n’t. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Winstanley seems to have been the central figure in this wretched little provincial society. Who is, at the present moment?”
“Sure, it’s yourself, Geraldine—the great soprano from London.”