“Because you look wretched and ill and miserable.” she said impulsively, “and I can’t bear it. You were good to me once. Do you remember how kindly you settled everything for me after Amédée left me? I don’t know what I should have done without you. And then, your mother. Ah, I know,” she continued, lowering her voice a little, “I know, and I cried for you. I saw her just before the end came and she spoke of you. She said ‘Yvonne, if ever you meet Stephen, give him a kind word for my sake. He will have the whole world against him.’ And I promised--but I should have done just the same if I had n’t promised. There is n’t any goodness in it.” He pressed her hand dumbly. Her eyes swam with starting tears, but his were dry. Sometimes when he thought of the devastation his crime had wrought, he would fall on his knees and bury his face, and long that he could ease his heart in a storm of weeping. But it seemed too dead for passionate outburst. Yet he had never felt so near to emotion as at that moment. They talked for a short while longer, of old days and home memories, bitter-sweet to the young man, and of his present position, whose hopelessness Yvonne refused to allow. She was anxious to effect a reconciliation between him and his family. His mother’s relations who lived in Holland Park she did not know. But his cousin, Everard Chisely, Canon of Winchester, might be brought to more Christian sentiments of forgiveness. She would plead with the Canon the first time that she met him. But Joyce shook his head. No. He was the black sheep. Everard had behaved generously. He must go his own way. No modern Christianity could make a man forget the disgrace that had been brought upon his name by felony. Besides, Everard never went back upon his word. Like Pilate, what he had written, he had written, and there was an end of the matter. “But how do you come to know Everard?” asked Joyce, wishing to turn the conversation. “I met him several times at your mother’s,” replied Yvonne. “He used to be so kind to her. And there he heard me sing--and somehow we have become immense friends. He comes to see me, and I sing to him. Dina Vicary says he comes up to town on purpose. Did you ever hear such a thing? But I can’t tell you how respectable it makes me feel--so impressive you know--a real live dignitary. Once he came when Elsie Carnegie and Vandeleur were there showing me her new song and dance. You should have seen their faces when he came in. Van, who sings in the choir of a West End church, began to talk hymns for all he was worth, while Elsie flicked her lighted cigarette into a flower-pot. It was so funny.” Yvonne broke into a contagious ripple of laughter. Then, remembering the flight of time, she looked at her watch and rose quickly from the seat. “I had no idea it was so late! I am going out to lunch. Now you will come and see me, won’t you? Come to-morrow evening. I live at 40 Aberdare Mansions, Marylebone Road. By the way, do you still sing?”