She was to leave the hospital in January. The time was rapidly approaching. Much of their time together was spent in the discussion of plans for the immediate future. Yvonne wanted to sell her furniture, which Joyce had inspected and found in safe hands. He opposed the idea. What was the use, when she would want it again, as soon as she was comfortably situated? In three months she would be in receipt of funds. Everard might cable her back a remittance long before. In the meantime, he could advance her a lump sum out of his capital. “Then you can take unfurnished rooms and put in your own things at once. It will be much cheaper.” “But suppose I don’t pay you back,” said Yvonne. “How can you make me?” “I can suggest nothing but a bill of sale on the furniture,” he replied laughingly. “What is that?” “Well, you sign a paper saying that if the debt is not paid in three months, at the end of that time I can put in the brokers and sell your furniture and take all the money.” “Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Yvonne. “Do let me do it. I should feel so businesslike. Draw it up now and I ’ll sign it.” “It will have to be registered,” said Joyce. “Well, register it then. What’s to prevent you?” “I was only jesting,” said Joyce. “But I’m quite serious. Don’t you see how serious I am? Come--to please me.” The idea caught her childish fancy, and she spoke quite in her old, gay mood. She was sitting up now, partially dressed, and, being able to move her limbs more freely, reached for writing materials that lay on the little table by her bed. “There, draw it up at once, as fearfully legally as you can, with all kinds of ‘afore-saids’ in it.” Joyce fell into her humour, and drew up the document in due form, read it over to her solemnly, and called one of the nurses to witness the signatures. Then he wrote out a cheque for the amount of the loan, which she locked up in her despatch-box. He went away with the bill of sale in his pocket. On his next visit he informed her that it had been registered and that he would be a merciless creditor. The frivolity of the proceedings cheered him. Meanwhile, the real problem of Yvonne’s arrangements presented itself. The idea of going at once into unfurnished rooms was abandoned. She was far too weak and helpless as yet for the worries of housekeeping. He suggested a boarding-house. But Yvonne shrank from the prospect of living among strangers. “Besides, you could n’t come and see me as often as I should like,” she added, with a little air of worldly wisdom. “You haven’t an idea what scandal is talked in those places.” So Joyce quickly acquiesced in her taboo of boarding-houses, and found the choice of domicile narrowed down to furnished apartments.