“Oh, how sweet of you!” she said, with a flash of her old sunlight. Suddenly he rose, and stood, hands in pockets, by the window, frowning absently at the gathering mist of evening outside. A conviction was forcing itself on his mind--a cold douche for his quixotic impulses. Obvious right and common-sense prevailed. “Yvonne,” he said turning round. “You had no quarrel with Everard, had you, at parting?” “Oh, no,” she replied, looking up round-eyed from her paper-bag. “He was very kind to me.” “Have you written to him about this?” “No. We arranged we should not correspond. He sent me word when he was going out to New Zealand. But I couldn’t let him know--I should be ashamed. Oh, no, Stephen, I could n’t write to him and say, ‘I am a beggar now, please give me charity.’ Why should he support me?” “I hate questioning you,” said Joyce in some embarrassment, “but--is it repugnant to you to--to think of Everard?” “Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a time of awful pain and misery--but if he came to take me back as his wife, I would go to him. If he ever can, I have promised that I will.” With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was taken aback by her simple candour. “If that is so, why on earth shrink from reconsidering, now, his former offer?” he asked, exceedingly puzzled at her point of view. “You tell me what I ought to do, and I will do it,” said Yvonne. “You must write to Everard.” “Very well.” “Then you need not have any fears at all for the future. It will be all so simple.” “How can I thank you?” said Yvonne. “Oh, if I could only sing for you! But nothing will ever give me back my voice--I am a useless little creature. And you have been so good to me to-day. I shall never forget it all my life.” But Joyce’s heart was at ebb-tide again. He rose soon, and took his hat and stick. “There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,” he said, with bitterness. “What I have done for you has cost me nothing--the cheapest of all services; I have only given you advice.” Yvonne looked at him wistfully. “If you talk like that, you will make me cry again.” “Forgive me,” said Joyce. “I am a beast.” CHAPTER XVII--YVONNE PROPOSES It was night. Yvonne lay wide awake. A suffused sound of breathing filled the air. Now and then a moan or a smothered cry of pain broke sharply upon the stillness. The woman in the adjacent bed began to murmur broken words in her sleep: “For the children’s sake, Joe--my poor little children--I wish we was all dead.” Some poor tragedy reenacting itself in slumber. Yvonne listened pityingly. The woman had seemed as broken down that day with misery as she herself. Then silence again, and Yvonne fell back upon her own tragedy, which seemed to be working itself out in the staring wakeful hours.