She had laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in her quiet, authoritative voice. Her manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She was eminently the woman of sense. Her reference was well understood by him, but being a man accustomed to the broad issues of life, he did not appreciate the delicate pleasure such a conversation afforded her. On this occasion, he went from her house straight to the Rectory, and in the drawing-room found young Evan Wilmington bidding good-bye to Yvonne. Her sunniest smile rested on the young fellow; when the door shut upon him, the after-glow of amusement was still upon her face. The Canon felt an absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been infrequent of late, since he had abandoned his scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne had fallen from his conjugal ideal--the woman who, as an impeccable consort and mother of children was to lend added dignity to his days--his feelings as regards her had been growing more helplessly human. His conception of the dove-like innocence of her nature had suffered no change. Her pure voice had ever been to him the speech of a purer soul. It was no vulgar jealousy that pained him; but jealousy it was, all the same. He went to her and put his hands against her cheeks and held up her face. “Don’t smile too much on young Evan,” he said. “It is not good for him. I want all your best smiles for myself, sweetheart.” “He has been making me laugh,” said Yvonne. “And I cannot?” “He is a silly boy and you are the venerable Canon Chisely.” “That’s it,” he said, rather bitterly, releasing her. Her expression changed. She caught him, as he was turning away, by the lapels of his coat. “Are you serious, Everard? You are! Forgive me if I have hurt you. I can’t bear to do it. Do you wish me to see less of Mr. Wilmington--really?” Looking into her eyes he felt ashamed of his pettiness. “See your friends as much as you like, my child,” he said, with a revulsion of feeling. The matter was settled for the time being, but thenceforward the even tenor of their life was disturbed occasionally by such outbursts. Once he grew angry. “You have the same smile for any man who speaks to you, Yvonne.” She replied with gentle logic, “That ought to prove that I like all equally.” “Your husband included.” She turned away wounded. “You have no right to say that.” “Then what have I a right to say, Yvonne?” “Anything,” she cried, facing him with brightening eyes, “anything except that I do not try with all my heart and soul to be a good wife to you.”