“Do you think we live a very grey life--now?” “You have a very hard, dull, monotonous life,” he replied. “I don’t,” said Yvonne stoutly. “I am very pleased and contented. I only want one thing to make me perfectly happy.” “So does every one. The one thing just makes the difference. It’s the one thing we can’t possibly get.” “It is n’t what you imagine,” said Yvonne. “You are thinking of money and all that.” “No. It’s your voice.” “It is n’t!” cried Yvonne, with a touch of petulant earnestness. “It is to see you bright and happy--as you used to be long, long ago. You might have known.” “It is very dear of you,” he answered, after a pause. “I am selfish--and can’t understand your sweet spirit. Sometimes I seem to have a stone heart, like the man in the German story.” “You have a warm, generous heart, Stephen. What other man would have done what you have for me?” “It was pure selfishness on my part,” he replied. “The loneliness was too appalling. And then, further, I am never quite sure I have acted rightly by you.” “I am,” she said. “And I’m the best judge, I think.” But Joyce was correct in his bitter self-analysis. Now and then his sensitive fibres vibrated. But generally the weight of the past years was on his heart, and repressed continuous emotion. To live on these intimate terms with Yvonne and never consider the possibility of loving her, after the way of men, was absurd. The chivalrous instincts awakened by her implicit trust in him, and the double barrier which forbade a love that could result in marriage, made him dismiss such considerations. But often, in gloomy introspective moods, his self-contempt denied these instincts as arrogant pretensions, and attributed the absence of warmer feelings towards Yvonne to the petrifaction of all emotional chords. Of late, however, he had ceased to speculate, taking his insensibility for granted. When they arrived at the Regent’s Park, they proceeded for some distance northwards up the great avenue. It was crowded. Joyce looked about him, with a fidgeted air, at the stream of passers-by. “Let us get away from the people and sit under a tree,” he said at length. Yvonne slipped her hand impulsively through his arm. “I wish you knew how proud I am of you,” she said. “It’s for your sake, too, Yvonne, dear,” he replied in a touched voice. She made one of her magnificent little gestures with the hand holding her sunshade. “I have never done anything to be ashamed of yet,” she said proudly, and glanced from Joyce to a pompous elderly couple with an air of defiance. Then she brought him abruptly to a stand before a flower-bed bright in its summer glory. “Oh, how lovely! Look!” She broke into little joyous exclamations. Colour affected her like music. A glow came into her cheek. She became again the thing of warmth and sunshine that had gladdened him four years before, when his degradation lay heavy on him. “It _is_ a beautiful world, Stephen.”