A little later in the evening, a young girl, Sophia Wilmington, went up to him with the charming insolence of youth.
“Why did n’t you tell us she was so sweet? I ’ve fallen head over ears in love with her.” The Canon smiled, bowed, and delivered himself of this extraordinary speech:--
“My dear Sophia, next to falling in love with me, myself, you could not give me greater pleasure.”
“A chance for a medallion,” said the Canon. Miss Wilmington had a pretty taste in medallion painting.
“Oh, I couldn’t get her colouring; but I should love to try--and her voice. To me, any one with a gift like that seems above ordinary mortals. You see I am quite ready to worship your angel.”
Mrs. Winstanley, who was close by, discussing the Engadine with the Bishop, did not lose a word of the above conversation. At his last exclamation, she shot a swift side glance which caught the momentary confusion and flush on the Canon’s face. She was quite certain now of the sort of fool he was going to make of himself.
Meanwhile, the girl broke into a gay laugh.
“It did sound funny. I meant the angel in the ‘Elijah.’”
“Oh,” said the Canon, “I was forgetting the ‘Elijah.’”
Mrs. Winstanley resolved at least to say a warning word. Before she left, she managed to have a few words with him.
“I hope you are keeping your eyes very wide open, Everard,” she said, in a whisper.
The Canon took her literally and so regarded her. But she smiled and put her hand on his sleeve.
“She is quite charming and all of that, I grant. But she is very much deeper than she looks.”
“Really, my dear Emmeline--” he began, drawing himself up.
“Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a wise woman so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and look before you leap.”
“I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon, stiffly.
Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham.
But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards his right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his study fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is the worst of keeping a consultant cousin--a woman of sense. Her advice _may_ save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause you bad quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the sense on such occasions; or _vice versa_. Hitherto Emmeline had been infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case, drew from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk handkerchief. And then, having put on the _sourdine_, so as not to disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,” with considerable taste and execution.