Vivie and Bertie were at length alone, for the police agent was bored, couldn't understand their talk, and gave himself an afternoon off. In this prison of Saint-Gilles, the cells were in many ways superior to those of English prisons. They were well lit through a long window, not so high up but that by standing on a chair you could look out on the prison garden. Through this window the rays of the sun could penetrate into and light up the cell. There was no unpleasant smell--one of the horrors of Holloway. The floor was a polished parquet. The bed was comfortable. There was a table, even a book-shelf. The toilet arrangements were in no way repulsive or obvious. Vivie insisted on Bertie lying down on the bed; she would sit on the chair by his side. He must be so exhausted.... "And what about _you_, miss? I'll lay you ain't slept these last three nights. _What_ a mess I've made of the 'ole thing!" "Bertie! _Why_ did you do this? _Why_ did you risk your life to come here; _oh why, oh why_?" wailed Vivie. "Because I loved you, because I've always loved you, better'n any one else on earth--since I was a boy of fourteen and you spoke so kind to me and encouraged me to get on and improve myself; and giv' me books, and encouraged me about me cricket. I suppose I'm going to die, so I ain't got any shame about tellin' you all this. Though if I thought I was goin' to live, I'd cut my tongue out sooner'n offend you--Oh,"--he gave a kind of groan--"When the news come about Mrs. Warren bein' dead an' you p'raps without money and at the mercy of these Germans ... well!--all I wonder at is I didn't steal an airyplane, and come in that. I tell you I had to exercise great self-control to stay week after week fiddling with the food distribution and pretendin' to be an American.... "Well! There it is! We must all die sooner or later. It's a wonder I ain't dead already. I've bin in some tight places since I come out for the Y.M.C.A.... "And talkin' about the Y.M.C.A., miss, I do _beg_ of you, if you get out of this--an' I'm sure you will--they'll never kill _you_," said Bertie adoringly, looking up at the grave, beautiful face that bent over him--"I do _beg_ of you to make matters right with the Y.M.C.A. I ain't taken away one penny of their money--I served 'em faithfully up to the last day before I saw my chance of hooking it across the lines--They must think me dead--and so must poor Nance, my wife. For I haven't dared to write to any one since I've bin in Belgium. But I did send her a line 'fore I started, sayin', 'Don't be surprised if you get no letter from me for some time. I'll turn up all right, you bet your boots--'