“But they can’t all be unhappy,” she said.
The ’bus stopped for a moment. Three or four young roughs, in Sunday clothes, with coarse, animal faces and discordant speech passed by below on the pavement, and noisily greeted a couple of quiet-looking girls, evidently acquaintances.
“These seem cheerful enough,” said Yvonne.
Joyce shrugged his shoulders.
“Did it ever occur to you what misery men of that type work in the world? By the laws of their class they will all marry—and marry young. Fancy a woman’s life in the hands of any of those fellows.”
The ’bus moved on. Yvonne was silent.
His tone was that of the book she had just been reading. She stole a side glance at him. His face in repose was always sad and brooding. To-day she seemed to read more clearly in it the lines that the breaking of the spirit had caused. She identified him with the characters in the sordid scenes he had described. Presently she laid her hand lightly on his arm.
“Do you think we live a very grey life—now?”
“You have a very hard, dull, monotonous life,” he replied.
“I don’t,” said Yvonne stoutly. “I am very pleased and contented. I only want one thing to make me perfectly happy.”