She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had all the weight of an imperative. “If you must have me, then--” said she in a quavering little voice, “I must do as you say.” “You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I will make it all sunshine for you--you need have no fears.” He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released her gently. “So it’s a promise?” “Yes,” said Yvonne. “Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for my husband.’” He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation. “Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh, midway between despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare--it wouldn’t sound respectful.” “Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’” But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.” The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty and innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing to have taken possession of. “Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that lay clasped with the other on her lap. “I am too frightened to be happy--yet,” she replied softly, with a shy lift of her eyes. “I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago I was a poor little singer--and now--” “You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave promptness. “That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems topsy-turvy. Oh, it _is_ your wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it? You are so good and wise, you wouldn’t let me do anything that was not right?” “Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be well,” answered the Canon. Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity. “I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another time I will stay with you as long as you want me.” The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in an old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for the servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of prompt execution. In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He parried his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own welfare that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed him her distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy for her in the loss of _prestige_ that she was sustaining as lady ruler of the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by her caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not be a triple dominion in his house. “I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a wife should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced in these matters. You will not be hard upon her.”