At times he found himself half cynically content with his lot. At others, a yearning rose within him like a great pain to be able to look the world in the face without shrinking from its condemnation. A strange idea began to work in his brain; to win back by some great deed of sacrifice his self-honour and respect. But he knew himself to be a dreamer of dreams, of too sorry stuff for such stern action. He would go whither the wind drifted him. Of this he thought as he walked home after parting with Annie Stevens. He met her the next morning on the beach, a long way from the town, sitting, a lonely figure upon a great drain-pipe rising half above the sand. She was resting her chin upon her fingers, that grasped a crumpled copy of “Tit-Bits,” and she was looking out to sea. Their eight weeks of pairing on the stage had brought to Joyce a feeling of companionship with her, which he did not have as regards the others. Besides, those who were not either domestic or commonplace, belonged to the flaxen-haired, large-eyed, tawdrily-dressed type so common in the lower ranks of the profession. Miss Stevens had a personality which, though unrefined, was at least her own, and he honestly liked her. She gave a little start when she was aware of his presence, and a quick flush came into her cheeks. But he did not notice it With a pleasant greeting he sat down by her side and talked of current trifles. At last she broke out suddenly. “Oh, don’t let’s talk ‘shop.’ I’m sick of the piece and the theatre altogether.” “Oh, come, it is not so bad,” said Joyce, consolingly. “We both ought to be playing good parts, and having rosier prospects. But things might be very much worse.” He was feeling brighter this morning. Yvonne had written him a long, gossipy letter, full of encouragement and her own unconscious charm, thus lifting him on a little wave of cheerfulness. With a friend like Yvonne and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As for Miss Stevens, he did not see what she had particularly to grumble at. If she had been beautiful or talented, she might have had reason to quarrel with her lot. “Besides,” he added after a pause. “Look what a lovely day it is!” “So you think we ought to be quite happy?” “Moderately so.” She was in a taciturn mood, and did not reply, but turned a little away from him and began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. Suddenly she said, rather petulantly:-- “I wonder if you could ever love a woman.” He had grown accustomed to her late, discrete methods of conversation, so the question scarcely surprised him. He took off his hat, so as to enjoy the breeze, and rested both hands at his sides on the drain-pipe. “I suppose I could if I tried,” he said carelessly, “but I’m very much better as I am. Why do you ask?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I thought I’d say something. We were n’t having exactly a rollicking time, you know.”