“But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly. “It is I who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life. If your life is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my happiness. For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought. I am not a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I want you, it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?”
“Above all men—of course—”
“Then your answer—‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘wait.’”
She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him.
“You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?”
She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had all the weight of an imperative.
“If you must have me, then—” said she in a quavering little voice, “I must do as you say.”
“You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I will make it all sunshine for you—you need have no fears.”
He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released her gently.
“So it’s a promise?”