It was strange how his rudderless course through the last six years had been influenced by other lonely and drifting craft. Annie Stevens, who had loved and nearly wrecked him, had been the cause of his linking fortunes with poor Noakes; and it was through Yvonne--with whom, sweetest of derelicts, he was now voyaging on unruffled waters--that he had first drifted towards Annie Stevens. He was pondering over this one day during an idle hour in the shop with the old bookseller, when a whimsical fancy seized him. “You lead a very lonely life, Mr. Runcle,” he said suddenly. “Yes,” replied the old man. “I suppose I do. Beyond one sister, who has been dying for many months, I have neither kith nor kin in the world.” CHAPTER XIX--FERMENT Is all this true?” asked Yvonne, mournfully. “Yes, worse luck,” replied Joyce, looking up from his Sunday newspaper. “It is very dreadful,” said Yvonne. She was finishing “The Wasters,” Joyce’s lately published novel. It was not a success. Its cultivated style received recognition everywhere, but the unrelieved pessimism, powerfully as it was presented, repelled most readers. He was inclined to be depressed at its reception. To Yvonne, however, it was a revelation. She closed the book with a sigh, and remained for some time gazing absently at the cover. Then she rose in her quick way. “Let us go out--into the sunshine--or I shall cry. I feel miserable, Stephen.” “On account of that wretched book?” “That and other things. Take me to Regent’s Park--to see the flowers.” He assented gladly and Yvonne went to put on her things. Shortly afterwards they were side by side on the garden seat of a westward bound omnibus. “I feel better,” said Yvonne, breathing in the summer air. “Don’t you?” “It is nice,” answered Joyce. “I shall be better pleased when we are out of these joyless streets. The Pentonville Road on a Sunday is depressing. I haven’t seen a smile on a human face since we have been out. What grey lives people lead.” “But they can’t all be unhappy,” she said. The ’bus stopped for a moment. Three or four young roughs, in Sunday clothes, with coarse, animal faces and discordant speech passed by below on the pavement, and noisily greeted a couple of quiet-looking girls, evidently acquaintances. “These seem cheerful enough,” said Yvonne. Joyce shrugged his shoulders. “Did it ever occur to you what misery men of that type work in the world? By the laws of their class they will all marry--and marry young. Fancy a woman’s life in the hands of any of those fellows.” The ’bus moved on. Yvonne was silent. His tone was that of the book she had just been reading. She stole a side glance at him. His face in repose was always sad and brooding. To-day she seemed to read more clearly in it the lines that the breaking of the spirit had caused. She identified him with the characters in the sordid scenes he had described. Presently she laid her hand lightly on his arm.