“Do you think I could see her?” asked Joyce—“that is to say, if she would care about it.”
“Certainly,” replied the sister. “It would probably do her good. To-day is a visiting day—after two o’clock.”
“I wonder whether she would like it,” said Joyce, questioningly.
“I will take her a message,” said the sister.
He scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. She retired and presently returned, smiling.
“She will be delighted. I have not seen her look like that since she has been here. ‘Tell him it will be a joy to see him.’ Those were her words.”
Joyce thanked her warmly, rased his hat, and departed. It was a fine crisp morning. The message seemed to bring a breath of something sweet into the air. He walked along almost buoyantly in spite of the sad plight of Yvonne. The appalling weight of loneliness was lifted from his shoulders. The sight of him would be a joy to one living creature. It was a new conception, and it winged his feet.
On the stroke of two the great doors of the ward opened, and he entered with a group of visitors, chiefly women of the poorer classes, some carrying babies. It was bewildering at first—the long double row of beds, each with its pale, wistful woman’s face. Some of the patients were sitting up, with shawls or wraps around them; the greater number lay back on their pillows, turning eyes of languid interest towards the visitors. Two beds curtained round broke the uniformity of the two white lines of bedsteads. At the end of the ward, a great open fireplace, with glowing blocks of coal, struck a note of cheerfulness in the grey November light, that streamed through the series of high windows. Joyce felt a man’s shyness in walking among these strange sick women, and looked helplessly down the ward from the doorway, to try to discover Yvonne. The sister came to his help from a neighbouring bedside.
“At the very end. The last bed on the left.”