“You do Yvonne injustice.”
“I did once, I grant,” she replied; “but now, as you see, I am pleading for her.”
“Yvonne needs no advocate with me,” said the Canon, stiffly.
“She may.”
“What do you mean, Emmeline?”
“If you don’t understand her nature, you may misinterpret her conduct. You see, Everard, she is young and light-natured—and so, like seeks like. You may always count upon me to keep things straight outside.”
She had laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in her quiet, authoritative voice. Her manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She was eminently the woman of sense. Her reference was well understood by him, but being a man accustomed to the broad issues of life, he did not appreciate the delicate pleasure such a conversation afforded her.
On this occasion, he went from her house straight to the Rectory, and in the drawing-room found young Evan Wilmington bidding good-bye to Yvonne. Her sunniest smile rested on the young fellow; when the door shut upon him, the after-glow of amusement was still upon her face. The Canon felt an absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been infrequent of late, since he had abandoned his scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne had fallen from his conjugal ideal—the woman who, as an impeccable consort and mother of children was to lend added dignity to his days—his feelings as regards her had been growing more helplessly human. His conception of the dove-like innocence of her nature had suffered no change. Her pure voice had ever been to him the speech of a purer soul. It was no vulgar jealousy that pained him; but jealousy it was, all the same.
He went to her and put his hands against her cheeks and held up her face.
“Don’t smile too much on young Evan,” he said. “It is not good for him. I want all your best smiles for myself, sweetheart.”