Soon the servant brought the tea, and Yvonne established herself over the tea-cups. The Canon, whilst waiting, glanced idly at the books and odds and ends on the table by his side. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise. He had become aware of the foreign envelope, with the Cape Colony stamp and its address to “Mrs. Chisely, care of Miss Vicary.” He also recognised Joyce’s handwriting which happened to be singularly striking in character. His brow grew dark. “What is the meaning of this, Yvonne?” “A letter from Stephen,” she replied with a sudden qualm. “And sent to you clandestinely. You have been corresponding with him secretly in defiance of my express desire. How dared you do it?” He spoke in harsh tones, bending upon her all the hardness of a stern face. She had never seen him angered like this before. She was frightened, but she steadied herself and looked him in the face. “I couldn’t help it, Everard,” she said, gently. “The poor fellow regards me as his only friend. I was forced to disobey you.” “That poor fellow has been guilty of mean robbery. He has herded with ruffians in a common gaol. He has dragged an old honoured name through the mire. For a man like that--once a knave always a knave. I don’t choose to have my wife keeping up friendly relations with an outcast member of my family. I am deeply offended with you--I pass over the underhand nature of the correspondence, which in itself deserves reprobation.” “I believe in Stephen,” replied Yvonne, growing very white. “He has been punished a thousand times over. He will live an honourable man to the end of his life. And if you read how he speaks of the few silly letters I have written him--his joy and gratitude--you would not wish to deprive him of them.” “Do you mean to say that you are deliberately setting yourself in opposition to my wishes, Yvonne?” asked the Canon in angry surprise. Yvonne was in great distress. She could not defy him openly, and yet she knew that no power on earth would prevent her from doing Joyce her little deeds of mercy. She looked at him piteously for a moment, and then sank by his chair and clasped his knees. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were such friends in days past--And when I met him again, he looked so broken and lonely--I could n’t in my heart let him go--and having given him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I did indeed, Everard--and a promise like that I must keep.” He put her not unkindly from him and, rising to his feet, took two or three turns about the room. Stopping, he said:-- “Why did you not tell me of this promise before?” “I was afraid to vex you,” said Yvonne. “You have vexed me much more by deceiving me,” he replied.