She dropped the book, looked at her soiled hands with a comic air of disgust.
“Horrid things! Why did n’t you tell me?”
Joyce laughed for answer. It was so like Yvonne. After she had withdrawn, with a further reminder about the tea, he went on smiling to himself.
It was very sweet, this brother and sister life of theirs, in spite of its isolation. There seemed no reason why it should not continue for ever. Indeed, he scarcely thought of change. Now that his small earnings seemed practically assured and Yvonne could contribute from her singing lessons something to the household expenses, the wolf was kept pretty far from the door.
He was in one of his lighter moods, when Yvonne’s sunshine “scattered the ghosts of the past,” and illuminated the dark places in his heart. He hummed a song, forgetful of the gaol and his pariahdom, and thought of Yvonne’s face awaiting him at the tea-table, as soon as he had completed his task.
A hesitating step was heard in the shop. He thought it was the boy returning from an errand.
“Another time you are sent out round the corner, don’t take a quarter of an hour,” he cried, without turning round.
An irritated tap of the foot made him realise that it was a customer. He sprang forward with apologies, and, as it had grown dusk, he seized a taper and quickly lighted the gas in the shop.
Then he looked at the man and started back in amazement; and the man looked at him; and for a few seconds they remained staring at one another. The visitor wore apron and gaiters and a bishop’s hat, and his dignified presence was that of Everard Chisely. He surveyed Joyce’s grimy and workaday figure with a curl of disgust on his lip. The glance stung Joyce like a taunt. He flushed, drew himself up defiantly.
“You are the last person I expected to meet here,” said the Bishop, haughtily.