cel singing the solo
in the anthem with his beautiful voice, in the very teeth of disaster, as
if nothing had happened.

She said, "Daddy is beautiful, isn't he? He had a sore throat for a
fortnight after Aunt Vicky died. And he thinks this is far worse, but he
won't go back on me. So he sings."

I was sitting with her in the garden on the Sunday evening. I said to
her, "Viola, you were caught with the beauty of Bruges. Why can't you see
the beauty of all this?"

She looked at me with her great dark eyes (they were very young and
brilliant), and she answered, "Dear Walter, I've been seeing the beauty
of it all my life."

I was seeing it for the first time.

I made the most of it, of the Canterbury atmosphere. I sank into it and
felt it sinking into me. I was, as Jevons had said I should be, "in it."

And, as I made my running, I thought with some remorse of that
unfortunate one, languishing in Bruges on his parole. But Canterbury
would have been no use to Jevons if he had been there.

There's no doubt that I did something for the Thesigers in those ten
days. I had effaced Jevons's legend. I had even effaced my own legend
(for the scandal, if you remember, had begun with me). And the Thesigers
were tackling their catastrophe with dignity and courage and, I think,
considerable success. By having me there, by being charming to me, by
presenting me openly and honourably to all their friends, they gave
slander the most effective answer. People asked each other: Was it likely
that the Thesigers would receive young Furnival with open arms if young
Furnival had been the man they'd heard about?

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 emb