Presently Yvonne’s voice was heard calling him from the top of the stairs:—
“Stephen!”
He raised a haggard face, and with an effort steadied his voice to reply. Then he rose, turned off the gas, from force of habit, and went with heavy tread up the stairs.
“Your tea,” said Yvonne, busying herself with a kettle. “I am making you some afresh.”
“I will go and wash my hands,” he said drearily.
He mounted to his bedroom and cleansed himself from the book-dust and returned to Yvonne. He drew his chair to the table. She poured him out his tea, and helped him to butter, according to a habit into which she had fallen. She deplored the spoilt toast. He said that it did not matter. But when he tried to eat, the food stuck in his throat. Yvonne made no pretence at eating, but trifled with her teaspoon, with downcast eyes. Joyce looked at her anxiously. She seemed to have grown older. The childlike expression had changed into a sad, womanly seriousness. Presently she raised her eyes, soft and appealing as ever, and met his.
“Did you see Everard?” she asked.
“No. I was out. But he left a note—that told me everything.”
“He asks for your consent?”
“Yes.”