“I have come to have a serious talk with you.” “Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up into his face. “We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.” Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and they sat down together. “It is about yourself, Yvonne--I may call you Yvonne?--and about myself too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?” “Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t mind at all if you scold me.” She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven. “I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It is I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.” The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she looked at him in piteous amazement. “You--want me--?” “Yes. Is it so strange?” “You are jesting still--I don’t understand--” She had withdrawn her hand from his clasp, and was sitting upright, twisting her handkerchief and trembling all over. It was so unexpected. She could scarcely trust her senses. She had regarded him more as an influence than as a man. To Geraldine’s wit she had given not a moment’s thought. To marry Canon Chisely--the idea seemed unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard his voice pleading. She was overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of responsibility. He had swooped down and caught her up through the vast moral spaces that lay between them, and she was dizzy and breathless. “I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying. “To-morrow--a week, a month hence--what you will. Take your time. I can give you a good name, comfort in worldly things--the ease and freedom from care which, thank God, my means allow--an honourable position, and a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait a month before I speak to you again?” “A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It would seem as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the whirl of her thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her kindness, provide for her future? “I could n’t accept it from you,” she added incoherently. “But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly. “It is I who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life. If your life is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my happiness. For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought. I am not a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I want you, it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?” “Above all men--of course--” “Then your answer--‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘wait.’” She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him. “You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?”