A messenger-boy appeared with a letter for Madame Latour. Joyce sent it up to her by the shop-boy, who presently brought down a reply note. The preparations for her departure had begun. Joyce’s heart seemed set in a vice and he nearly cried aloud with the pain. The hours wore on; the piles of books were disposed of; nothing to do, but wait for customers. To keep himself employed he copied untidy pages of his manuscript. He went up for dinner. Yvonne was more subdued than at breakfast, and they scarcely spoke. When the meal was over, she told him quietly of the letter she had received. “Everard says that he is getting the special licence to-day, and the marriage will take place to-morrow at St Luke’s, Islington. Considering the circumstances, he thinks it best that there should be no delay.” “It is just as well,” he replied. “When changes come, it is best that they should come swiftly. Has he made any more definite arrangements--the hour?” “He will send me a message later.” “You will have to put up your things. If I can help you, Yvonne--” “Thanks--no. I have so little. The few odds and ends I shall leave you--as mementoes. You would like to keep them, would n’t you?” “Thank you, Yvonne,” he said, turning away. They had spoken in subdued voices, as folks do when discussing funeral arrangements. Joyce, blinded and dazed by his misery, was unperceptive of her joylessness. At the most, he was conscious of a seriousness that, under the circumstances, was not unnatural. His own pain he hid with anxious effort. The afternoon hours passed. He lit the gas in the shop, and proceeded with whatever mechanical employment he could find. It was a relief to be alone. The old man’s gossip would have jarred upon him, driven him up to the sitting-room where the ordeal was fiercest, or out into the hard-featured streets. He would have two or three days of solitude before Runcle returned from Exeter. Messages came from the Bishop. One for Yvonne. Another for him, acknowledging his letter, announcing that the hour of noon had been fixed upon, shortly before which time a carriage would be sent to convey Yvonne to the church, and begging him in most courteous terms to assist at the ceremony and give Yvonne away. An echo of the Salvation Army girl’s voice came back to him, and he smiled grimly. “It’s the beastliest thing I can do.” He scribbled a line of acquiescence and gave it to the waiting messenger-boy. “I had not thought of the dregs,” he said to himself. That evening they sat drearily in their accustomed places by the fireside, each knowing it to be their last together. Night after night they had spent in each other’s society, Yvonne sewing or reading or dreaming in a lazy, contented way, Joyce writing upon a board laid across his knees. Sometimes she would come and lean over the back of his chair and watch the words as they came from his pen, her soft wavy black hair very near his fair, close-trimmed head.