“So I am to call for you on Thursday at twelve and carry you off to your new abode,” he said.
“Have you settled yet?” asked Yvonne.
“No, not yet. If I can get the place in Elm Park, I shall give up the other. I shall hear to-morrow.”
Yvonne looked wistfully into the fire, and sighed.
“I shall feel awfully lonesome there, by myself. I am beginning to dread it. You won’t think me silly, will you? I used not to mind living alone. But then it was different. You ’ll come and see me very, very often. Bring your writing, and I ’ll be as quiet as a mouse and won’t disturb you. You don’t know how frightened and nervous I am. I suppose it’s because I have been so ill.”
“You poor little thing,” said Joyce, looking down upon her, as he stood on the hearthrug, “I wish I knew some motherly soul to take care of you—or that I could take care of you myself,” he added, with a smile.
“Oh, I wish you could,” cried Yvonne, piteously, with an appealing glance. “Oh, Stephen—could n’t you? I would n’t give you much trouble.”
“Do you mean, Yvonne, that you would like me to get lodgings in the same house as you?” asked Joyce, with a sudden flash in his eyes.
“Yes,” said Yvonne. “Just at first. Until I feel stronger. I have been longing to ask you, but I didn’t dare. Don’t think me selfish and horrid.”
The notion dawned upon him like an inspiration. Why had he not thought of it before? Why should he not find a garret above her rooms whence he could look protectingly down upon her, in brotherly affection, instead of leaving her ill and alone to the dubious mercy of landladies and lodging-house servants? He was quite bewildered by the charm of her proposal.