Joyce walked down the druggetted aisle, and as soon as he saw her and knew himself to be recognised, he quickened his pace.
There she was, half sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows, her wavy dark hair like a nimbus around her pale face. In honour of the visit she had done up her hair, with infinite difficulty, poor child, and put on a pretty white dressing-jacket tied with knots of crimson ribbon. His heart was smitten with pity. She was so changed, so wasted. Her delicate features were pinched, her childlike lips blanched. Only the old Yvonne’s eyes remained—the great, pathetic, winning dark eyes. They gave him glad and grateful welcome.
“Yvonne.”
It was all he could find in his head to say as he pressed her little thin hand.
“How good of you to come to see me,” she said.
Joyce was unprepared. It was not Yvonne’s voice—once as sweet in speech as in singing; but a toneless, distressed sound devoid of quality, like that of a cracked silver bell. He could not conceal the shadow of dismay on his face. She was quick to note it.
“I am afraid I speak like a wicked old raven,” she said with a smile; “but you mustn’t mind.”
“I can’t tell you how grieved I am to see you like this,” he said, sitting down by the bedside. “You must have been very ill. Poor Yvonne.”
“Yes. Awfully ill. You would have been quite sorry to see how ill I was. Do you mind moving your chair further down, so that I can look at you? I can’t turn my head, you know. Is n’t it silly not to be able to turn one’s head?”
“You must make haste and get well,” he said, after he had complied with her request “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, looking at him wistfully. “They all say it’s going to be a long, long business. But I want to know how you came here—to England, I mean,” she added more brightly, after a pause. “It was such a startling surprise when Sister brought me your note this morning. Why have you left Africa? I ’ve been dying to know all day.”