“Would to God I had known of it!”
“It was your own doing.”
“You are right. My uncharitableness towards you has brought its punishment.”
“I cannot say I am sorry,” said Joyce, grimly.
There was a short silence, compelled by the struggling emotions in each man’s heart. In Joyce’s there was war, a sense of victory, of the sweetness of revenge. He felt, too, that now Yvonne would indubitatively reject the Bishop’s offer of help. He had won the right to support her.
Suddenly her voice was heard from the back-parlour door.
“Do come. The tea is getting quite cold.”
Both men started. A quick flash came into Everard’s eyes and he made a hasty step forward. But Joyce checked him with a gesture.
“I had better prepare her for the surprise of seeing you.”
The Bishop nodded assent. Joyce ran to the street door to see that the boy had returned to his post, and, satisfied, left the Bishop and went to join Yvonne in their little sitting-room upstairs.