“Yvonne is still poorly, Everard?” she asked, with her air of confidential responsibility.
“A little. She has been gadding about somewhat too much lately, and it has knocked her up.”
“Has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have had something to do with it?”
“Of course not,” replied the Canon, sharply. “It would be ridiculous.”
“I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. The man was singing at the Kursaal this afternoon. Here is his name on the programme.” She handed him the slip of paper. He read the name among the artistes. “M. Bazouge.” He returned it to her.
“Not at all. A relation of her first husband’s, I suppose. In fact Yvonne said as much.”
“I could not help being struck by the name, Everard. It is so peculiar. I remembered it from the publication of the banns.”
“I compliment you on your memory, Emmeline,” said the Canon.
Mrs. Winstanley drew herself up, offended.
She walked from the window where they were standing to a table, and fetched from it a newspaper.
“Do you remember the Christian name of Yvonne’s first husband?”
The Canon drew himself up too, and frowned.
“What is the meaning of all this, Emmeline? What are you trying to insinuate?”
“If I thought you were going to adopt this tone, Everard, I should have kept my suspicions to myself.”
“I certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry. “It is an insult to Yvonne which I cannot permit. My wife is above suspicion.”
“Like Caesar’s,” said the lady with a curl of the lip. “Do you know that we are beginning to quarrel, Everard? It is slightly vulgar. I am your oldest friend, remember, and I am trying to acquit myself of a painful duty to you.”
“Duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will excuse my saying so,” replied the Canon.
“Oh, very well then, Everard,” she said hotly. “You can go on being a fool as long as you like. I saw your wife struggling in this man’s embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or three strange coincidences have been forced upon my notice. For your sake I have been excessively anxious. My conscience tells me I ought to take you into my confidence, and I can do no more. You can see the Christian name of this Bazouge in the Visitors’ List, and adopt what course of action you think fit. I wash my hands of the whole matter. And I must say that from the very beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with the greatest want of consideration.”