“Yes,” said Yvonne.
“Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for my husband.’”
He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation.
“Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh, midway between despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare—it wouldn’t sound respectful.”
“Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’”
But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.”
The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty and innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing to have taken possession of.
“Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that lay clasped with the other on her lap.
“I am too frightened to be happy—yet,” she replied softly, with a shy lift of her eyes.
“I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago I was a poor little singer—and now—”