“Perhaps I do,” said Yvonne. She went with the Canon on to the _digue_, and walked along the shady side, by the hotels, past the gay terraces thronged with lunching guests. But all the glamour had gone from the place. An hour had changed it. And that hour seemed a black abyss separating her from happiness. An hour ago she had looked upon this kind, grave man who walked by her side as her husband. Now what was he to her? She shrank from the thought, terrified, and came nearer to him, touching the flying skirt of his coat as if to take strength from him. They entered the crowded dining-room, where the _maître d’hôtel_ had reserved them a table. She struggled bravely through part of the meal, strove to keep up a conversation. But the strain was too great. Another five minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. She rose, with an excuse to the Canon, and escaped to her room. There she flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the cool pillows. It was a relief to be alone with her fright and dismay. She strove to think, but her head was in a whirl. The incidents of the late scene came luridly before her mind, and she shivered with revulsion. A rough hand had been laid on the butterfly and brushed the dust from its wings. The Canon came later to her room, kindly solicitous. Was she ill? Would she like to see a medical man? Should he sit with her? She clasped his hand impulsively and kissed it. “You are too good to me. I am not worth it. I am not ill. It was the sun, I think. Let me lie down this afternoon by myself and I shall be better.” Surprised and touched by her action, he bent down and kissed her. “My poor little wife.” He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to shield her eyes from the glare, and promising to order some tea to be brought up later, he went out. The kiss, the term, and the little act of thoughtfulness comforted her, gave her a sense of protection. She had been so bruised and frightened. Now she could think a little. Should she tell Everard? Then she broke down again and began to cry silently in a great soothing pity for herself. “It would only make him unhappy,” she moaned. “Why should I tell him?” She grew calmer. If Amédée would only keep his promise and leave her free, there was really nothing to fret about. She reassured herself with his words. Through all his failings toward her he had ever been “_bon enfant_.” There was no danger. Suddenly a thought came that made her spring from her bed in dismay. The concert. She had forgotten that Amédée was singing there. Everard was going. He would see the name on the programme, “Amédée Bazouge.” There could not be two tenors of that name in Europe. Everard must be kept away at all costs.