“I was disloyal,” said Joyce. “Perhaps he told you?”
She looked at Janet Welford, and her face flamed with colour. Perhaps in some way she guessed that Janet had been Bertram’s best friend.
Janet nodded.
“Things happen like that. Perhaps they can’t be helped. It’s good if one gets a chance to patch things up. Life’s mostly patchwork.”
“When can I see him?”
She saw him that night. His fever had left him—“Our prayers!” said Janet—and the German doctors allowed Joyce to sit for a little while by his bedside. He was sleeping when she went into the ward where he lay alone, but presently he awoke and opened his eyes, and looked at her.
“Hullo, Joyce,” he said, in a kind of whisper. “I’m not dreaming again, am I?”
“I’ve come back,” she answered, and she put her arms about him and wept, so that her tears fell on his face.
He was silent for a little, while looking at her with a faint smile.
“Do you mean back for always?” he asked presently. “As man and wife?”