She glanced at him in a puzzled way, unable to comprehend. She knew that he felt his disgrace very deeply, but she could not understand the way in which he related it with herself. Beyond looking careworn and ill, he seemed almost the same externally as in the days of their former intimacy; and more so now than on the occasion of their meeting on the Bank Holiday, when he was shabbily attired. Now he was wearing a new blue serge suit and a carefully tied cravat--he had bought the clothes on the chance of his being suddenly required to be correctly dressed, and this was his first time of wearing them--and looked at all points the neat, well-groomed gentleman she had always known; so that she found it difficult to realize fully even the change in his material fortunes. The blight that had come over his soul was altogether beyond her power of perception. She could find no words to supplement her sympathetic exclamation, and so there was silence. When she looked at him again, as he sat opposite, his cheek resting on his hand, and his mournful eyes fixed upon her, she found herself thinking what a good-looking fellow he was, with his clear-cut face, refined features and trim blonde moustache. It was a pity he had those deep lines on each side of his mouth and wore so unsmiling an expression. There was sunshine in Yvonne’s heart that quickly dissipated clouds. She rose suddenly, and went round to the key-board of the great piano. “I ’ll sing you something first and then we ’ll try your voice.” She paused before she sat down, and asked: “Would you like something sad or something gay?” The afternoon light, slanting in through the further unshaded window, fell full upon her, and revealed the warmth of her cheeks and the smiling softness of her lips. To have demanded sadness of her would have been an act of unreason. “Something bright,” said Joyce, instinctively. She ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a _barcarolle_ of Théophile Gautier. “Dites, la jeune belle, Où voulez-vous aller? La voile ouvre son aile, La brise va souffler! L’aviron est d’ivoire. Le pavillon de moire, Le gouvernail d’or fin; J’ai pour lest une orange, Pour voile une aile d’ange, Pour mousse un séraphin.” Her exquisite voice, sounding like crystal in the little room, seemed to Joyce as if it came from the dainty boat. Her sweet face seemed to peep forth under the angel’s wing, mocking the seraphic cabin-boy. The setting was as perfect as her rendering. All the joy and inconsequence of life rang from her lips. She came to the last verse. “Dites, la jeune belle, Où voulez-vous aller?