The sister came in and stayed whilst afternoon tea was in progress. She had built up a lone woman’s romance for these two, and had taken them both into her friendship. Hence the use of the sitting-room, the tea and her wise counsels to Joyce as to the proper care of Yvonne. When she left them alone again, a silence fell upon them, and with it the gloomy cloud upon Joyce, that no sunshine could dispel for long. He looked broodingly into the fire, the lines deepening on his face, the old pain in his eyes. Was it a right thing that he was about to do--to associate his tarnished name with hers? It was all very well to dream of the sweetness and light that daily companionship with her would bring into his life--but was he fit, socially, morally, spiritually, to live with her? It was taking advantage of her innocence. His sensitiveness shrank, as if from the suggestion of a baser disloyalty to her trustingness. Yvonne, leaning back in her long chair, kept her dark eyes fixed upon him. At first she wondered at his sudden gloom, and fancied distressedly that it proceeded from her proposal. But suddenly an illumination, such as she had never in her life experienced, lit up her mind, and caused her a strange little thrill. She called his name softly. He started, turned, rose at her sign and bent low over her chair. “I want to come and live with you more than ever now, Stephen,” she said; and as she spoke her voice seemed to have regained its musical softness. “I mean to try and drive away the sad thoughts from you. Perhaps, after all, though I can’t sing, I may do a little good in the world.” Her tenderness touched him. He wished she was a child that he might kiss her. The temptation to receive this boon the gods were giving him was too strong. He yielded entirely. And from that hour began Yvonne’s conscious battle with the powers of darkness in the desolate depths of a man’s heart. CHAPTER XVIII--DRIFTWOOD