The man’s eyes fell for a moment beneath the intense, child-like earnestness of hers. Silence fell upon them. He stretched out his arm and took her hand that rested outside the coverlet. A man is often instinctively driven to express his sympathy by touch, where a woman would find words. After a while she withdrew her hand gently, as if to break the current of thoughts. “I was wondering why you looked different,” she said. “You have grown a beard.” “Yes,” he said, with a sudden laugh--the transition was so abrupt. “I was too slack to shave in South Africa. Don’t you like it?” “Oh, not at all. It spoils you.” “I will cut it off at once.” “Not just to please me?” “Just to please you. It will be a new sensation.” “To have it off?” “No--to please you, Yvonne.” Her eyes smiled gratefully at him. “Tell me when I must go,” he said, after a while. “I must n’t tire you. And you may have other visitors.” “Don’t go yet. No one else will come.” “How do you know?” “You are the only person who has been to see me since I was brought here,” she replied sadly. Joyce looked at her for a moment incredulously. “Do you mean to say you have been quite alone here, among strangers, all these weeks?” “Yes,” she said. “But Sister is kind to me, and they allow me all sorts of little indulgences.” “But you should be among loving friends, Yvonne,” said Joyce. “I have so few. And I have told no one that I am here. I couldn’t. Besides, whom could I tell?” Joyce could not understand. It was so strange for Yvonne to be friendless. Delicacy forbade him to question further. “I have had a lot of trouble, you know,” she said. “It has been nearly all trouble for over two years. I wrote and told you what had happened. Then I went to live with Geraldine Vicary, and began to sing again. But I was always being laid up with my throat and I never knew whether I could fulfil an engagement when I made it--so I didn’t get on as I used to. People won’t employ you if they fear you may have to throw them over at the last moment, will they? And Geraldine used to keep me in a great deal, for fear I should hurt my voice. But, you see, I had to make some money. So I went out and sang just before this illness, when I ought not, and my throat became inflamed and I caught another cold, and it got worse and worse until diphtheria came on. Then poor Dina caught it and there was no one to nurse me. You could n’t expect her sister, who did n’t know me, to do much, could you? And then Dina was just giving up her flat, and of course I couldn’t keep it on--so the doctor thought I had better come here. ‘J’y suis, j’y reste. It is not a gay little story, is it?” “It is a heart-rending story altogether,” said Joyce, with a concerned puckering of the forehead. “I wish I could do something to brighten you, Yvonne.” “You have done so,” she said with a smile, “by coming to see me. How good of you to remember--and, you know, by your not writing, I thought you had quite forgotten.”