“I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty and not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?” “You would n’t compare us surely?” “Certainly not. I could compare my wife with no other woman. It would be in all respects wrong.” “Well,” she replied, bidding him adieu, “I hope that you will be happy.” “My dear Emmeline,” said the Canon, “I have been humbly conscious for years that my happiness has always been one of your chief considerations.” From Mrs. Winstanley’s he proceeded at once to Lady Santyre’s, where he received congratulations and luncheon. He left with the comfortable certainty that all Fulminster would ring with the news of his engagement during the course of the afternoon. His announcement was as public as if he had proclaimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster did ring as he had expected--not that it was unprepared, for the Canon’s attentions to Madame Latour had been a subject of universal speculation. Murmurings arose in certain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded in the aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon was highly eligible. One of the aggrieved declared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and instanced the unfortunate Stephen. “My dear,” replied in remonstrance her interlocutor, who had just married her last daughter to the leading manufacturer in Fulminster, “You must not talk as if the Canon had run off with a ballet-girl.” But generally his indiscretion was condoned. It had been a stroke of genius to let Yvonne charm her critics from a public platform at the very outset. For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her visit passed in a whirl. Families called upon her; mothers congratulated her; the “Fulminster Gazette” interviewed her; the Santyres changed the small dinner-party, to which she had been already asked, into a solemn banquet in her honour; and the Canon was ever at her side, attentive, courteous, dignified, authoritative, playing his part to perfection. The flattery pleased her. The universal deference paid to the Canon, of which she had grown more keenly conscious, awakened a shy pride. But it all seemed an incongruous dream, out of which she would awake when she found herself in her tiny flat in the Marylebone Road. She was afraid to go back. If it was a dream, she would regret this sudden lifting from her shoulders of all sordid cares, the dread of losing her voice, of poverty, and the grasshopper’s wintry old age. If it continued true, she feared lest the familiar surroundings might pain her with regret for the life she was abandoning--the sweet artist’s life, with all its inconsequences and its purposes, its hopes and fears, its freedom and its claims. Even now, she cried a little at the prospect of giving it up. And then she wouldn’t know herself. Hitherto, her conception of herself had been Yvonne Latour, the singer. That was her Alpha and Omega. It would be like looking in the glass and seeing a total stranger. It was pathetic.