Is all this true?” asked Yvonne, mournfully.
“Yes, worse luck,” replied Joyce, looking up from his Sunday newspaper.
“It is very dreadful,” said Yvonne.
She was finishing “The Wasters,” Joyce’s lately published novel. It was not a success. Its cultivated style received recognition everywhere, but the unrelieved pessimism, powerfully as it was presented, repelled most readers. He was inclined to be depressed at its reception. To Yvonne, however, it was a revelation. She closed the book with a sigh, and remained for some time gazing absently at the cover. Then she rose in her quick way.
“Let us go out—into the sunshine—or I shall cry. I feel miserable, Stephen.”
“On account of that wretched book?”
“That and other things. Take me to Regent’s Park—to see the flowers.”
He assented gladly and Yvonne went to put on her things. Shortly afterwards they were side by side on the garden seat of a westward bound omnibus.
“I feel better,” said Yvonne, breathing in the summer air. “Don’t you?”
“It is nice,” answered Joyce. “I shall be better pleased when we are out of these joyless streets. The Pentonville Road on a Sunday is depressing. I haven’t seen a smile on a human face since we have been out. What grey lives people lead.”