Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who retired, and then gave her hair a few tidying touches before the mirror in the over-mantel.
“I wonder if he has brought me those old Provençal songs.”
“I hope he has, my dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, drily.
“Well, he is sure to have something nice to tell me, at any rate,” replied Yvonne, in her sunny way.
The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, his hands behind his back. On the table lay his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly across the room to meet him, her face lit with genuine pleasure. He greeted her gravely and held her hand in both of his.
“I have come to have a serious talk with you.”
“Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up into his face.
“We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.”
Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and they sat down together.
“It is about yourself, Yvonne—I may call you Yvonne?—and about myself too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?”