At the end of my week the whole seven of them were almost merry. (I may say Norah, the youngest, had been merry all the time.) My visit lapped over into another week.

At the end of ten days my relations with Canon and Mrs. Thesiger became so intimate that we could discuss the situation.  They could even smile when I reminded them that there was one good thing about it—­Canterbury didn’t, and couldn’t, realize Jevons.

They hoped devoutly that it never would.

And they thought it wouldn’t.  By this time, poor darlings, they believed that I had saved them; that Jevons was an illness and that Viola had got over him; that I had cured Viola of Jevons.

I believed it myself.  She had avoided me most of the time; she had left me to her sisters, particularly the youngest, Norah.  And when I was alone with her she was silent and embarrassed.  I thought:  “She is beginning to be afraid of me.  And that is an excellent sign.”

The night before I left Canterbury I asked her, for the third time, to marry me.

She said, “I know why you’re asking me, and it’s dear of you.  But it’s no good.  It can’t be done.  Not even that way.”

V

The next day I went back to Bruges to release Jevons from his parole.

I found him sitting tight in his hotel in the Market-Place, waiting my return with composure.

He had recovered in my absence and had been making the best of his internment.  He had written a series of articles on “The Old Cities of Flanders.”  He worked them up afterwards into that little masterpiece of his, “My Flemish Journal,” which gave him his European celebrity (it must have made delightful reading for the Thesigers).  There was no delay, no reverse, no calamity that Jevons couldn’t turn into use and profit as it came.  Yes, I know, and into charm and beauty.  Viola Thesiger lives in his “Flemish Journal” with an enduring beauty and charm.

I said I was sorry for keeping him shut up in Bruges so long.  He said it didn’t matter a bit.  He had been very busy.

I thought it was his articles and his book (he had been dreaming of it) that had made Jevons so happy.  But I was mistaken.

We spent half the night in talking, sitting up in my big room on the first floor for the sake of space and air.

Jevons went straight to the point by asking me how I had got on at Canterbury.

I felt that I owed him a perfect frankness in return for the liberties I had taken with him, so I told him how I had got on.

He said, “I’m not going to pretend to be astonished.  But you can’t say I didn’t play fair.  I gave you your innings, didn’t I?”

I said I’d had them, anyhow.  We’d leave it at that.

He said, No.  We couldn’t leave it at that.  He’d given me my innings.  He could have stopped my having them any minute, but he’d made up his mind I should have them.  So that nobody should say afterwards he hadn’t played fair.