Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the sincerity of the compliment. Coming from Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There was an air of strength and dignity about his broad shoulders, his strongly-marked, thoughtful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that had always set him apart, in her estimation, from the other men with whom she came into contact. She never included him in her generalisations upon men and their strange ways. His profession and position, as well as his personality, put him into a category where her unremembered father, and Mr. Gladstone, and the great throat-surgeon whom she had once consulted, vaguely figured. She was always conscious of being on her very best behaviour while talking to him. The Canon glanced at his friends. They were conversing animatedly, as if in no great hurry to depart. So he leant back against the platform and lingered a while with Yvonne. “You must take care not to catch cold,” he said, after a while. “I believe it’s a horrid evening.” “Oh, don’t fear. I shall be all right tomorrow,” said Yvonne. “I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, though any hitch then would be a misfortune, certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your throat is already relaxed.” “You mustn’t spoil me, Canon Chisely. I am used to going out in all kinds of weather. I have to, you know.” “I wish you had n’t. You are far too fragile.” “Oh, I am stronger than I look. I am tough--really.” She brought out the incongruous epithet so prettily that he put back his head and laughed. “If I had any authority over you, you should not play tricks with yourself,” he said, in grave playfulness. “But you have a great deal of authority over me. I should never dream of disobeying you.” He leaned his body forward, his hands resting on the platform edge behind him, and looked at her earnestly. “Do you think so much of me as that?” he asked, in a low voice. “Why, of course, I think everything of you,” replied Yvonne, innocently. “Don’t you know that?” An answer was on his lips, but, happening to look round, he caught Mrs. Winstanley’s ironical glance, an off-switch to sentiment. He stroked a grizzling whisker and drew himself up. “I mustn’t keep the Bishop waiting,” he said. “Nor I, Mrs. Winstanley.” They joined the group, where Yvonne received her congratulations and compliments with childish pleasure. In a few moments they separated, and the Canon drove off, regarding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical feelings. Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a cigarette in Miss Vicary’s hotel sitting-room. As Yvonne’s friends, they had been dining with Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed with her urbanity, and sang her praises with Celtic hyperbole. “I should n’t trust her further than I could see her,” said Geraldine. “She hangs up her smile every night on her dressing-table.” “Just hear a woman, now,” said the Irishman.