The days wore on. The second novel, over whose pages Yvonne had cast gleams of sunshine, was finished and disposed of to the same publishers. His source of income from occasional journalism showed signs of becoming steadier. But all the same, the struggle with poverty continued hard. Yvonne fell ill again and lost her music-lessons. It took some time after her recovery to pay off the debts incurred for doctor, medicine, and invalid necessaries. To obtain funds to take her to the seaside for a few days, Joyce was forced to ask his publishers for an advance. However, the trip restored Yvonne to health again, and their uneventful life pursued its usual course. One day a strange phenomenon occurred. A visitor was announced. It was the sister who had tended Yvonne in the hospital. Once before, while Yvonne was living in the Pimlico lodgings, she had paid a flying visit. On this occasion she stayed for a couple of hours with Yvonne, who, happy as she was with Joyce, felt a wonderful relief in talking again familiarly with one of her own sex. She poured forth the little history of all that had befallen her since she had left the hospital. “Do you mean to tell me,” the sister said at last, “that you keep house together on this romantically Platonic basis?” Yvonne regarded her, wide-eyed. “Of course. Why should n’t we?” The sister was a woman of the world. When she had entered the room and perceived the unmistakable signs of a man’s general presence, she had drawn her own conclusions. That these were erroneous, Yvonne’s innocent candour most clearly proved. Yet she was astonished, perhaps a little disappointed. The offending Eve lingers in many women, even after much self-whipping--for the greater comfort of their lives. “But how can a man look at you and not fall in love with you?” she asked downright. Yvonne laughed, and ran to the kettle that was boiling over on the gas-stove--she was making tea for her visitor. “Oh, you can’t think of the number of people who have said those same words to me! Why, that is why I am so happy with Stephen--he has never dreamed of making love to me; never once--really. And, do you know, he’s the only man I ’ve ever had much to do with who has n’t.” “He looks like a man who has seen a great deal of trouble,” said the sister. Yvonne’s laugh faded, and a great seriousness came into her eyes. “Awful trouble,” she said in a very low and earnest voice. “Perhaps that makes him different from other men,” said the sister, taking her hand and smoothing it. “Perhaps,” replied Yvonne. It was a new light, quick and clear, flashed upon their relations. Her woman’s instinct clamoured for confirmation. “Do you think that if he had not this great trouble, he would necessarily have fallen in love with me, like the others?” “It stands to reason,” replied the elder woman gently--“if he’s a man at all. And he is a man--one, too, that many women could love and be proud of.”