she brought me up my breakfast, just after I had heard
the car drive away from the house.

"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