“But, Yvonne, do you know what undreamed of happiness you are offering me?” he said.
“Then you would like it?” she cried gladly.
“Why, my dear child!” said Joyce; and he walked about the room to express his feelings.
“I have thought it all out,” said Yvonne, sagely. “We can go to much cheaper rooms than you intended me to have, so that you can pay the same for your own lodgings as you pay now. I would n’t lead you into extravagances for anything in the world.”
“If it comes to that,” said Joyce, “the second floor is vacant where I lodge now.”
“But that is delightful!” cried Yvonne. “The fates have arranged it on purpose for us.” They talked for a while over the new plan. Joyce’s acquiescence, relieving her of much nervous dread of loneliness, raised her spirits wonderfully.
“You won’t tyrannise over me too much, will you? If I am going out with tan shoes, you won’t send me indoors to put on black ones? Promise me.”
He laughed. The idea of such an attitude towards her seemed to belong more to comic opera than to real life. And yet he felt his authority. She regarded him with the implicit trust of a stray child.
The sister came in and stayed whilst afternoon tea was in progress. She had built up a lone woman’s romance for these two, and had taken them both into her friendship. Hence the use of the sitting-room, the tea and her wise counsels to Joyce as to the proper care of Yvonne. When she left them alone again, a silence fell upon them, and with it the gloomy cloud upon Joyce, that no sunshine could dispel for long. He looked broodingly into the fire, the lines deepening on his face, the old pain in his eyes.
Was it a right thing that he was about to do—to associate his tarnished name with hers? It was all very well to dream of the sweetness and light that daily companionship with her would bring into his life—but was he fit, socially, morally, spiritually, to live with her? It was taking advantage of her innocence. His sensitiveness shrank, as if from the suggestion of a baser disloyalty to her trustingness.