Both men started. A quick flash came into Everard’s eyes and he made a hasty step forward. But Joyce checked him with a gesture. “I had better prepare her for the surprise of seeing you.” The Bishop nodded assent. Joyce ran to the street door to see that the boy had returned to his post, and, satisfied, left the Bishop and went to join Yvonne in their little sitting-room upstairs. She had just entered, was lifting a plate of hot toast from the fender. She held it out threateningly with both hands. “If it’s all dried up it is not my fault,” she scolded. “And oh! you know I don’t allow you to sit down in your shirt-sleeves!” He made no reply, but took the plate mechanically from her and placed it on the table. “What is the matter, Stephen?” she asked suddenly, scanning his face. “Some one has called to see you, Yvonne.” “Me?” She looked at him for a puzzled moment. Then something in his face told her. She caught him by his shirt-sleeve. “It can’t be Everard?” she cried, agitated. “Yes. It is Everard.” She grew deadly pale and her breath came fast. “How has he managed to find me?” “I don’t know. Possibly he will explain.” Yvonne sat down by the table and put her hand to her heart. “It is so sudden,” she said deprecatingly. “Perhaps you would rather put off seeing him,” suggested Joyce. “Oh no, no. I will see him now--if you don’t mind, Stephen, dear. I am quite strong again. Tell him to come. And don’t be unhappy about me.” She smiled up at him and held out her hand. He took it in his and kissed it. “My own brave, dear Yvonne,” he said impulsively. A flush and a grateful glance rewarded him. He found the Bishop scanning the book backs. “Will you let me show you up to the sitting-room?” said Joyce. The Bishop bowed and followed. At the foot of the stairs he paused. “I think it right to tell you,” he said, “that I have received authentic news of the death of Madame Latour’s first husband. The object of my sudden visit to England is to take her back with me as my wife.” The unexpectedness of the announcement smote Joyce like a blast of icy air. The loftiness of the Bishop’s assurance dwarfed him to insignificance. As at previous crises of his life, the sudden check cowed the spirit yet under the prison yoke. His defiance vanished. He turned with one foot on the stair and one hand on the baluster and stared stupidly at the Bishop. The latter motioned to him to proceed. He obeyed mechanically, mounted, turned the handle of the sitting-room door in silence, and descended again to the shop. No sooner was he alone than a swift consciousness of his moral rout made him hot with shame and anger. His heart rose in fierce revolt. Yvonne was free. Free to marry whom she liked. What right over her had this man who had cast her off, spent two whole years at the other end of the world without once troubling to enquire after her welfare? What right had the man to come and rob him of the one blessing that life held for him?