He preached on the text from the story of Nicodemus, “Except a man be born again.” The words caught her fancy as being apposite to her own case, and, disregarding the thread of the Canon’s discourse, she preached a little sermon to herself. She was going to be born again. Yvonne the singer would die, and a new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of the Rectory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in her stead. She caught a phrase in which the Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attending on the death of the old Adam. She wondered whether she would be called upon to suffer the fire of purification. It was like the Phoenix. At this point she pulled herself up short. To mix up the Phoenix and Nicodemus might be profane. So she bestowed her best attention on the remainder of the sermon.
That afternoon he took her through the Rectory--a great rambling Elizabethan house, with nineteenth-century additions. She followed him meekly from room to room, filled with wonder at the beauty of her future home. The Canon had spent much money over his collections--overmuch, some critics said--and the house was a museum of art treasures. Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furniture met her in every apartment, at every turn of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her subdued, but gradually the new impressions effaced it. He spoke as if all these things were already hers--established, as it were, a joint ownership.
“This is your own boudoir,” he said, as he led her into a pleasant room, overlooking the lawn and commanding a view of the Abbey. “Do you think you will be happy in it?”
“I must be,” she said, gratefully. “Not only because you have given me the most beautiful room in the whole house, but because you are so good to me in all things.”
“Who could help being good to you, my child?” said the Canon.
He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a shy moment on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so indulgent, and yet a man so greatly to be venerated and honoured, that all her sweet womanhood was moved. Standing, too, in this room that was to be her own, she felt the future melt into the present. Her hand slipped timidly through his arm.