The evenings they usually spent together, working or talking. Now and then, at Joyce’s invitation, the old man would come in, and the trio would talk literature, the old man vaunting the ancients and Joyce defending the moderns, until a veritable Battle of the Books was recontested, while Yvonne sat by, in awed silence, wondering at the vastness of human learning. Often he wrote or discussed the novel with her. In this she took the deepest interest. The intellectual processes involved were a perpetual mystery to her, and caused her to place Joyce on a pinnacle of genius. But her sympathy and enthusiasm helped him as few other things could. And gradually her influence made itself felt in his writing. His sympathies widened, his aspect upon life softened. Planned to reveal the bitter sordidness of broken lives, and half written in a grey, hopeless atmosphere, imperceptibly the book lost in harshness, grew in tenderness and humanity. And this corresponded to the softening in the nature of the man himself. Yet now and then incidents occurred that brought back the past in all its gloom. One in particular weighed for many days afterwards upon his mind. It was a sultry night. He had come out for a stroll down Upper Street and High Street, before going to bed. Outside the Angel, the limit of his walk, he lingered a moment and was looking with idle interest at the great block of omnibuses, when he became aware that a poorly-dressed woman was standing by him, gazing rigidly into his face. He started, tried to fix her identity. “Good God! It is you!” said the woman. Then he remembered. It was Annie Stevens, the girl who had betrayed him so miserably to the theatrical company years before. “Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, somewhat humbly, as he remained silent. “You recall a very bitter time to me,” said Joyce. “Do you think it is any sweeter to me?” she asked. And then, with a quick glance round at an approaching policeman:-- “Walk on a little way with me, will you?” He hesitated for a moment, but a beseeching look in her eyes touched him. Her presence at that place, at that hour, spoke of tragedy. She had never been pretty. Now she had grown thin and hard-featured. “You need n’t fear I’m going to ask you for anything--you of all people in the world. Of course, if you don’t want to be seen with me, don’t come. You can’t hurt me. I’m past that. But I’d like to speak with you for a minute or two.” He had moved on with her while she was talking. Then there were a few moments’ silence. “Well?” he enquired. “What do you wish to say?” “God knows--anything--just to ask you, perhaps, whether you’re right again. I have thought of you enough.” He glanced at her curiously. “Why have you come to this?” “Why did you go to prison?” she retorted. “I did wrong and was punished for it.”