“Well, I suppose I had better get up too,” I said.  “I can’t stop in bed and be waited on by you.”

“You’ve got to,” she replied curtly, “unless you would rather I sent up Mrs. Weston.”

“Who’s Mrs. Weston?” I inquired.

Sonia placed the tray on my bed.  “She’s our housekeeper.  She’s deaf and dumb.”

“There are worse things,” I observed, “in a housekeeper.”  Then I sat up and pulled my breakfast towards me.  “Of course I would much rather you looked after me.  I was only thinking of the trouble I’m giving you.”

“Oh, it’s not much trouble,” she said; then after a little pause she added, in a rather curious voice:  “Anyway I shouldn’t mind if it was.”

“But I am feeling perfectly fit this morning,” I persisted.  “I might just as well get up if your father would lend me some kit.  I don’t think I could squeeze into McMurtrie’s.”

She shook her head.  “The doctor says you are to stop where you are.  He is coming up to see you.”  Then she hesitated.  “One of the prison warders called here last night to warn us that you were probably hiding in the neighbourhood.”

“That was kind,” I said, “if a little belated.  Had they found the bicycle?”

“No,” she answered, “and they are not likely to.  My father went out and brought it in the night you arrived.  It’s buried in the back garden.”

There was another short silence, and then she seated herself on the foot of the bed.  “Tell me,” she said, “this girl—­Joyce Aylmer—­do you love her?”

The question came out so unexpectedly that it took me by utter surprise.  I stopped in the middle of conveying a piece of bacon to my mouth and laid it down again on the plate.

“Why, Joyce is only a child,” I said; “at least she was when I went to prison.  We were all in love with her in a sort of way.  Her father had been an artist in Chelsea before he died, and we looked on her as a kind of general trust.  She used to run in and out of the various studios just as she pleased.  That was the reason I was so furious with Marks.  It was impossible to believe that a man who wasn’t an absolute fiend could—­” I pulled up short in some slight embarrassment.

“But she is not a child now,” remarked Sonia calmly.  “According to the paper she must be nineteen.”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose people grow older even when I’m in prison.”

“And she loves you—­she must love you.  Do you think any woman could help loving a man who had done what you did for her?”

“Oh, I expect she has forgotten all about me long ago,” I said with a sudden bitterness.  “People who go to prison can’t expect to be remembered—­except by the police.”

I had spoken recklessly, and even while the words were on my tongue a vision of Joyce’s honest blue eyes rose reproachfully in my mind.  I remembered the terrible heartbroken little note which she had sent me after the trial, and then her other letter which I had received in Dartmoor—­almost more pitiful in its brave attempt to keep hope and interest alive in my heart.