“Yes, just hear a woman,” retorted Geraldine, sarcastically. “I suppose you think she loves Yvonne, don’t you?” “Of course I do. I’m sure she’s thinking how sweet she is this very minute.” “She would like to be poisoning Yvonne this very minute.” “Well, I’m blest!” exclaimed Vandeleur, letting the match die out with which he was preparing to light a fresh cigarette. “It takes a woman to imagine gratuitous devilry!” “And it takes a man to absorb himself in his dinner to the besotting of his intelligence! But I have eyes. And a logical mind--don’t tell me I have n’t. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Winstanley seems to have been the central figure in this wretched little provincial society. Who is, at the present moment?” “Sure, it’s yourself, Geraldine--the great soprano from London.” She did not condescend to notice the flattery. “It’s Yvonne. I bet you she’s the most-talked-of person in Fulminster this evening. And Mrs. Winstanley the sickest. Oh, how dull men are! What is all this Festival, really, but the apotheosis of Yvonne?” “It’s the canonisation of Yvonne, I should say,” remarked Vandeleur, drily. Miss Vicary’s expression relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair. “You’re not such a fool, after all, Van.” “So I ’ve been told before,” he replied, with a chuckle. “Anyhow, it will be a splendid thing for the dear child.” “Oh, how can it be? I have no patience with you!” “That’s obvious,” said Vandeleur. “Yvonne would give any man her head, if he whimpered or clamoured for it,” Geraldine, rising to her feet, “and then tell you in her pathetic way, ‘but he wanted it so, dear.’ And there isn’t a man living who could be good enough to Yvonne!” “There I agree with you,” said Vandeleur. Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, quite unconscious of the facts that had aroused Miss Vicary’s indignation. The memory of the artistic triumph of the day and the Canon’s generous praise lingered pleasantly around her pillow. But if there was any one man to whom her thoughts were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend of her girlhood, who was then speeding into exile over the bleak autumn seas. CHAPTER IX--PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE