Her patient acceptance of her lot won Joyce’s admiration. But of her real position he had no idea. The gentleman in him that had survived his shame and degradation forbade him to pry into her private affairs. Besides, he took it for granted that when she recovered, she would live by herself again, in the old way, and that her drawing-room would be a haven of rest to him for indefinite years. The question of nursing alone, he thought, and her incomprehensible friendlessness, had brought her to the hospital. He longed for her to leave it. One day, however, he found her lying down in bed, her hair in dark loose masses over the pillow, her face turned away towards the sister who was sitting by her side. The latter rose on seeing him, and hurried forward to meet him in the aisle. “Be as kind as you can to her,” she said; “she is in great trouble to-day, poor little thing.” “What is the matter?” asked Joyce, anxiously. “Let her speak for herself. I was to send you away when you came. She was not fit to see you, she said. But I am sure it will comfort her to talk to a friend.” The sister moved away, and Joyce approached Yvonne’s bedside with quick steps. Something serious must have happened. Yvonne rased a wan, desolate face and eyes heavy with crying, and put out her hand timidly from beneath the bedclothes. He retained it, as he sat down upon the chair just vacated by the sister. The few little cakes he had brought her he placed on the stand near by. She looked too woe-begone for cakes. “I have come in spite of your message,” he said. “Why did you want to send me away?” “I am too miserable,” murmured Yvonne, in her broken voice. “What has happened to make you miserable?” he asked very softly. “Tell me, if it is anything I can hear.” “It’s my voice that has gone,” cried Yvonne in a sob. “They told me this morning--the doctor brought a throat specialist--I shall never be able to sing again--never.” Before this sudden calamity the man was powerless for comfort. “My poor little woman!” he said. “It is worse than losing a limb,” moaned Yvonne. “I have been dreading it--hoping against hope all along. I wished I had died instead of Dina. I wish I could die now.” The tears came again. She drew away her hand and dabbed her eyes with a miserable little wet rag of a handkerchief. “Don’t,” said Joyce, helplessly. “If you give way you will make yourself worse. They may be mistaken. Perhaps it will come again after a year or two.” He strove to cheer her, brought forward all the arguments he could think of, all the tender phrases his unaccustomed mind could suggest. At last the tears ceased for a time. “But it is my means of livelihood gone,” she said. “When I leave here I shall starve.” “Not while I live,” said Joyce, impulsively. Then he reflected. Surely she could not be entirely without means. He coloured slightly at his remark, as at an impertinence.