“I had forgotten there was such a thing as song in the world,” said Joyce sadly. “Well, you ’ll remember it to-morrow evening,” said Yvonne. “I have an idea. _Au revoir_ then.” “God bless you,” said Joyce, shaking hands with her. She nodded brightly, and tripped away up the path. Joyce watched her dainty figure until it was out of sight, and then he wandered aimlessly through the Park, thinking of the past hour. And, for a short while, some of the contamination of the gaol seemed to be wiped away. CHAPTER II--YVONNE That evening Yvonne was standing by the door of a concert-hall, as her friend and fellow-artist Vandeleur adjusted a red wrap round her shoulders. He was a burly, pudding-faced Irishman with twinkling dark blue eyes and a persuasive manner. His fingers lingered about the wrap longer than was necessary. “Good-bye,” said Yvonne, “and thank you.” She was feeling a little upset. Vandeleur, a popular favourite, had preceded her on the programme, and his song had been met with rapturous applause. “You have ‘queered’ me, Van,” she had said, in pure jest. Whereupon, he had returned to the platform to give his enthusiastically demanded encore, and, to the disappointment of the audience, had sung the most villainous drawing-room ballad he could think of, without an attempt at expression. The applause had been perfunctory, and Yvonne’s appearance had created a quickening of interest. Vandeleur’s unnecessary quixotism put Yvonne into a false position. So she thanked him shyly. “Let me just have ten minutes of a cigarette at home with you,” he pleaded. Yvonne was tired. It was very hot; she had been running hither and thither about London since the morning, and was longing in a feminine way to free herself of hampering garments, and to lie down with a French novel for an hour before going to bed. But when a man spoke to her with that note of entreaty in his voice she did not know how to refuse. She nodded assent. Vandeleur called a cab and they drove together to her flat. It was up many flights of stairs--the passage was very narrow, the drawing-room very tiny. The big Irishman standing on the hearthrug seemed to fill all the space left by the grand piano. How this article of furniture was ever brought into the flat puzzled Yvonne’s friends as much as the entrance of the apples into the dumplings puzzled George III., until some one suggested the same solution of the problem--the flat had been built round the piano. Everything else in the room was small, like Yvonne herself, the armchairs, the couch, the three occasional tables. A few water-colours hung around the walls. The curtains and draperies were fresh and tasteful. All the room, with its dainty furniture and pretty feminine knick-knacks, was impressed with Yvonne’s graceful individuality--all except the immense grand piano, which asserted itself loudly, a polished rosewood solecism. It seemed such a very big instrument for so small a person as Yvonne.