“No. We arranged we should not correspond. He sent me word when he was going out to New Zealand. But I couldn’t let him know—I should be ashamed. Oh, no, Stephen, I could n’t write to him and say, ‘I am a beggar now, please give me charity.’ Why should he support me?”
“I hate questioning you,” said Joyce in some embarrassment, “but—is it repugnant to you to—to think of Everard?”
“Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a time of awful pain and misery—but if he came to take me back as his wife, I would go to him. If he ever can, I have promised that I will.”
With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was taken aback by her simple candour.
“If that is so, why on earth shrink from reconsidering, now, his former offer?” he asked, exceedingly puzzled at her point of view.
“You tell me what I ought to do, and I will do it,” said Yvonne.
“You must write to Everard.”
“Very well.”
“Then you need not have any fears at all for the future. It will be all so simple.”
“How can I thank you?” said Yvonne. “Oh, if I could only sing for you! But nothing will ever give me back my voice—I am a useless little creature. And you have been so good to me to-day. I shall never forget it all my life.”