“I am only kind to them, as any one else would be.” “Fiddlesticks, my dear. You should keep them in their place.” “But what _is_ their place?” asked Yvonne, pathetically. “I never know. That is why I wish they were women. Oh, I love so being here with you, Dina. I wish I had a lot of women friends that I could talk to when I can’t see you. But you’re the only real woman friend I ’ve got.” “You dear little mite!” exclaimed Geraldine, with sudden impulse. “I can’t see why women don’t take to you. And I can understand all the men falling in love with you. Even the Canon.” “Oh, how can you say such a thing?” cried Yvonne, quickly, the colour coming into her cheeks. “By reason of the intelligence that God has given me, my dear,” replied Geraldine. “I would send him packing if I were you.” “It is very kind indeed of a man like that to come and see me.” “And to pick you out from among all the concert singers in London for his musical festival?” “But we’re old friends, Dina. He is only doing me a good turn.” “So as to deserve another, you simple darling. In the meantime, I wouldn’t encourage Vandeleur or your new _protégé_, the Canon’s unmentionable cousin.” “You know, I once thought there was something between you and Van,” remarked Yvonne, with guileless inconsequence. “Rubbish!” said Miss Vicary. And then she added, rising hastily, after a moment’s silence, “Look, you are getting chilly in this cold wind,--and I am sure you have next to nothing underneath.” To keep Yvonne out of draughts and other pretexts for catching cold was one of Miss Vicary’s self-imposed tasks, and she sought to compensate Yvonne’s reckless exposure of herself when alone by excess of vigilance on her own part when Yvonne was under her control--which is not an uncommon irrationality in women, who, geniuses or not, have an infinite capacity for taking superfluous pains. However, in spite of her maternal precautions, it happened that Yvonne was laid up two or three days afterwards with a cold which flew at once to her throat. Although in no way serious, it filled her with dismay. She knew her throat to be delicate. That her voice might one day fail her was the dread of her life. “What does he say about me?” she asked, pathetically, when Geraldine had returned from a short consultation with the doctor. “Is it going to hurt my voice? Oh, do tell me, Dina?” “You must n’t talk, or else it will,” replied Geraldine, severely. Then she threw off the chastener, put on the consoler, and, sitting on the bed, petted Yvonne until she had restored her mind to a measure of peace. “Then I must throw up my engagements?” Yvonne asked, wistfully, after a while. “Certainly the one here next week. But don’t bother your dear little head about it.” “And the concerts at Fulminster for Canon Chisely. I must get well for them, Dina.” “Why, of course you will,” replied Geraldine. “They are weeks and weeks ahead. Besides, let the Canon go to Jericho!”