She was staying with Mrs. Winstanley. Now Mrs. Winstanley was the leading social authority in Fulminster. She was a distant cousin of Canon Chisely. In fact, she was an infinite number of irreproachable things. Mothers came to her as a matrimonial oracle. The Mayor consulted her on ticklish questions of civic etiquette. The affairs of the parish were in her hands. Although she inhabited a well-appointed house of her own, she superintended the domestic arrangements of the Rectory; and performed all the duties of hostess for her cousin when he entertained. Thus, parochially and socially she was invaluable to the Canon--his right-hand woman, one who could share his dignity, and, by so doing, add to its impressiveness. If he had been called upon to write her epitaph, he would have carved upon the stone, “Here lies a woman of sense.” Now, when a responsibly placed and grave bachelor of three-and-forty holds that opinion of a woman of his own years, and consults her in all his concerns, the result is not difficult to imagine. Cousin Emmeline ruled the Rectory, with exquisite tact it is true--for if there was one of her peculiar and original virtues of which she made a speciality, it was tact--but yet her influence was paramount. When the Canon had come to her with a request to invite Madame Yvonne Latour to stay with her, she had elevated polite eyebrows. “Whoever heard of such a thing!” “It seems simple,” said the Canon. “I can’t invite her to my own house, so I beg you to invite her to yours.” “You are not going to do this for all the professionals engaged at the festival?” “Of course not,” answered the Canon; “who is suggesting anything so absurd?” “Then why make an exception of Madame Latour, who is not even singing the leading parts?” “She is very delicate and requires comforts,” he replied. “If she is not taken care of, she may not be able to sing at all. Besides, it is my particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the privilege of expressing it to you.” “I take it she is a very great friend of yours?” “A very great friend,” said the Canon. Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant possibilities. Certain weaknesses becoming apparent in her own impregnable position strongly tempted her to refuse. She bit her lip and looked at her manicured finger-nails. “Come, you’re a woman of sense,” added the Canon, after a pause. The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. She was a woman of sense. How absurd of her to have forgotten. An ironical smile played on her lips and lurked in her steel-grey eyes. “You want to present Madame Latour to Fulminster society, Everard, with whatever advantages may be attached to my chaperonage?” “Precisely,” said the Canon. “Well, I will send the invitation. But will she accept it?” “I ’ll see about that,” he replied briskly. “I am deeply indebted to you, Emmeline.”