The Festival was over. It was the day after. Miss Vicary and Vandeleur had returned to town by an early train and Yvonne was spending an idle morning over the fire. She had wandered round the shelves of the morning-room in search of a novel, and had selected “Corinne” because it was French. But Yvonne was a child of the age, and children of the age do not appreciate Madame de Staël. One can understand a dear old lady in curls and cap sighing lovingly over “Corinne,” bringing back as it does memories of inky fingers and eternal friendships; but not—well, not Yvonne. She loved “Gyp.” An unread volume was in her trunk upstairs. She felt too tired and lazy to get it. Besides, she was not quite sure whether the sight of “Gyp” would not shock Mrs. Winstanley, who was engaged over her voluminous correspondence at a table by the window.
“They have such queer prejudices,” thought Yvonne. “One never knows.”
So she dropped “Corinne” on to the floor and looked at the fire. In spite of her awe of Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave Fulminster. Life had been made very pleasant for her the last few days. Her throat was somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished she could give it a long rest. But on Monday she was engaged to sing at a club concert at the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was to resume her singing lessons; and the weather in London was wet and muggy. It would be bliss to be idle, not to think of earning money and just to sing when you wanted. She turned her head and caught a chance glimpse of her hostess’s face. The morning light streaming full upon it showed up pitilessly the network of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen contours of her lips and the roughness of her skin. Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so old and faded—a letter to a sister-in-law detailing Everard’s folly did not conduce to sweetness of expression—and she wondered whether she, Yvonne, would be happy when she came to look like that. She shivered a little at the thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving their footprints, and she would grow old and her voice would pass away. It was dreadful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she made it very dark indeed, and summoned every available bogey. What should she do in her old age, when she could no longer earn her living? Geraldine was always preaching thrift, but she had put nothing by as yet. If she became incapacitated to-morrow, she did not know how she would live. She looked at the fire wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, and found her position very pathetic. But just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley’s collie, rose from the rug and came and laid his chin on her knees, looking at her with great, mournful eyes. Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which astonished both Bruce and his mistress, and taking the dog’s silky ears in her hands, she kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his melancholy. So Yvonne stepped out of the darkness into the sunshine again.
Presently a servant entered.
“Canon Chisely would be glad if he could see Madame Latour for a moment.”
“Where is the Canon?” asked Mrs. Winstanley.
“In the drawing-room, ma’am.”
Yvonne rose quickly and went to her hostess, who slipped a sheet of blotting-paper over her half-finished page.
“Shall I go down?”
“Naturally.”