But Joyce’s heart was at ebb-tide again. He rose soon, and took his hat and stick.
“There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,” he said, with bitterness. “What I have done for you has cost me nothing—the cheapest of all services; I have only given you advice.”
Yvonne looked at him wistfully.
“If you talk like that, you will make me cry again.”
“Forgive me,” said Joyce. “I am a beast.”
CHAPTER XVII—YVONNE PROPOSES
It was night. Yvonne lay wide awake. A suffused sound of breathing filled the air. Now and then a moan or a smothered cry of pain broke sharply upon the stillness. The woman in the adjacent bed began to murmur broken words in her sleep: “For the children’s sake, Joe—my poor little children—I wish we was all dead.” Some poor tragedy reenacting itself in slumber. Yvonne listened pityingly. The woman had seemed as broken down that day with misery as she herself. Then silence again, and Yvonne fell back upon her own tragedy, which seemed to be working itself out in the staring wakeful hours.
She had not written to Everard. Pen, ink, and paper had been brought. The sister had propped her up with pillows in a posture especially comfortable for writing. But her strength had failed her. To ask him for money was more than her pride could do.