Sarah brought in the breakfast and retired. They sat down to table. Somehow or other the meal proceeded. Two things had come by post for Joyce, one a belated but laudatory notice of “The Wasters,” the other a cheque from the office of a weekly paper. He passed them both to her, according to custom. “You mustn’t bother about me at all, Yvonne. I am in a different way of business altogether from what I was when we first started housekeeping. The new book will do ever so much better than ‘The Wasters.’ I shall miss you terribly--at first--but it will all dry straight, Yvonne. I dare say I shall go on living here. Runcle and I are immense pals, you know--perhaps I may go into partnership with him and bring some modern go-ahead ideas into the concern--become a Quaritch or Sotheran--who knows? Yes, I should n’t like to leave these quaint, dear old rooms,” he said, looking round, anywhere but in Yvonne’s face, with an air of cheerfulness that he felt in his heart must be ghastly. “Something of you and your dear companionship will linger about them. I shall pretend, like the ‘Marchioness,’ that you are with me.” He passed his tea-cup, and, meeting her eyes, tried to smile. The comers of her lips responded bravely. “And at last you will come into indisputed possession of your furniture,” she said. He had not the heart to protest. So they continued to talk in this light strain of the coming parting, until Joyce, looking at his watch, found it was time to go down to the shop. At the door, on his way out, he paused to relight his pipe. Then, without trusting himself to look round, he left her. But if he had turned he would have seen her grow suddenly very white, clutch the mantel-piece for support with one hand while the other pressed her bosom hard, and sway for a second or two with shut eyes. Downstairs he resumed his unfinished task of the evening before. He worked at it doggedly, trying not to think. But it was as futile as trying to hold one’s breath beyond a certain period. “Yvonne is going--to marry Everard--going for ever--I shall be alone--she will lie in his arms--I shall go mad--God help me--if it is more than I can bear, there is a way out--I can keep up till she goes--she shall not know--afterwards.” His brain could not work beyond. The same thoughts throbbed with almost rhythmic recurrence as he priced and catalogued the books. Once he opened a tattered “Marcus Aurelius”:-- “If pain is an affliction, it must affect either the body or the mind; if the body is hurt, let it say so; as for the soul, it is in her power to preserve her serenity and calm, by supposing the accident no evil.” He laughed to himself mirthlessly, and threw the book on the fourpenny heap. “Or pretending, like the Marchioness,” he said. He was scarcely in a mood for “Marcus Aurelius.”