Joyce sketched rapidly the events that had led him back—the death of Noakes, the year of wretched apathy, the purchase of his book by the publishers, the craving for civilisation.
“So I sold out and came home,” he concluded. “I have been back a fortnight.”
“You must have been very sad at losing your friend,” said Yvonne. “Death is an awful, awful thing. Have you ever thought of it? A person is living and feeling, like you and me, to-day—and to-morrow—gone—out of the world—for ever and ever.”
Her voice sank to a whisper and she looked at him out of great, awe-stricken eyes.
“I have lost my dear friend too—just lately. Did you know?”
“Yes,” he replied gently. “I wrote to her for your address and her sister answered the letter, telling me of her death.”
“Wasn’t it terrible? And she so bright and brave and strong. I never loved anybody as I loved her. It was only after she was buried that I knew—and then I wished I had died instead—I who am no good to any one at all. And I am alive. Isn’t it an awful mystery?”
The man’s eyes fell for a moment beneath the intense, child-like earnestness of hers. Silence fell upon them. He stretched out his arm and took her hand that rested outside the coverlet. A man is often instinctively driven to express his sympathy by touch, where a woman would find words.
After a while she withdrew her hand gently, as if to break the current of thoughts.
“I was wondering why you looked different,” she said. “You have grown a beard.”