"Yes, quite alone," June laughed. "Who did you expect to find here, pray?" she demanded.

"Nobody—I only wondered if you had had any visitors."

"I might have known it wasn't the truth that he was coming here," she told herself vexedly.

"Well, and what about the success?" June asked; she was sitting on the hearthrug stroking Charlie. "You don't mean to say that the old dear at the agency really had something to offer you this time?"

Esther nodded.

"Yes, and she's desperately anxious for me to take it, too. It's quite a good offer, but it means leaving here and living in; and I don't believe I want to leave here," she added ruefully.

June looked dismayed.

"I shan't let you go," she said promptly. "Just as we are settling down so cosily." She put her white hands over her ears. "No, I don't want to hear another thing about it, if that's it," she said. "I shan't listen—write and refuse it—write and refuse it at once."

Esther laughed; she pulled June's hands down and held them firmly.

"Tell me," she said. "Do you know any people named Ashton?"

She was longing to find out if June did know them; it seemed such a lifetime since she had seen Raymond or spoken to him, she was hungry to hear him spoken of, even if only by this woman who probably had merely known him as an ordinary acquaintance.

"Ashton!" June wrinkled up her nose. "I know some Ashtons who live in Brayanstone Square," she said at last. "A mother and son. A very handsome woman she is, with white hair, she has a sort of grande dame look about her—the sort of woman you can imagine in a powdered wig and a crinoline, curtsying to the queen." She scrambled up, and, snatching a paper fan from the shelf, swept Esther a graceful curtsy to illustrate her meaning.

But Esther was too much in earnest to be amused.

"It must be the same Mrs. Ashton," she said eagerly. "This is her card—she gave it to me to-day—Mrs. Raymond Ashton."

June glanced at the card and nodded briskly.

"Yes, it's the same. I don't know her frightfully well; she's rather reserved, too; but I admire her immensely—well, go on."

"She wants me to go to her as a sort of companion—she has offered me fifty pounds a year."

June whistled.

"Not bad, is it? But you'll refuse, of course?"

"I asked her to let me think it over; I said I should like to talk it over with you first."

June clasped her hands round her knees and stared into the fire thoughtfully.

"She's a widow, isn't she?" Esther said hesitatingly. "At least—she didn't say anything about a husband."

"Yes, she's a widow right enough," June said. "And delighted to be, I should think," she added bluntly. "I never knew the departed spouse, but from all accounts he was a perfect terror."

Esther said nothing. Raymond had always spoken of his father as being a "rare old sport."

After a moment—

"There's a son, too," June said. "A kind of Adonis to look at, beautiful eyes and all that sort of thing."

"Yes," said Esther. She tried hard to keep the eagerness from her voice. "Do you—do you know the son too?" she asked nervously.

June gave a queer little laugh.

"Oh yes, I know him. That is to say, I say 'How d'ye do' to him when I have the misfortune to meet him, but——"

Esther's hands were clasped in her lap.

"Why—why—misfortune?" she asked.

June Mason shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, I don't know—it's hard to explain—he's never done me any harm, but there are some people one hates by instinct, and Raymond Ashton is one of the people I hate." She smoothed a crease in the skirt of her frock. "He's such a—such an awful outsider," she added, unconsciously choosing the word Micky Mellowes had used a few hours before.

Esther sat very still. Twice she tried to speak, but no words would come. She knew that it was unfair to June to sit there and allow her to go on talking about Raymond, but something in her heart seemed to have set a seal on her lips.

"He's that insufferable kind of creature who thinks himself irresistible," June went on. "Micky has often told me the way he brags about his so-called 'conquests.' Conquests, indeed! What are they but a few poor ignorant girls hoodwinked by his handsome face and smooth tongue? Dozens of girls he's had, my dear, literally dozens! Only the other day some one told me that Mrs. Ashton had to threaten to cut him off with a shilling if he didn't give up some little person he was supposed to be going to marry! I don't know how true it is, mind you, but that's the sort of man he is—I've no time for him at all," she finished vigorously.

She turned to look at Esther, and gave a little exclamation of alarm. "How pale you are! Don't you feel well?"

"I'm quite all right—I'm just tired—I don't think I'll go down to supper to-night. I'll just stay here and be quiet. I wanted to hear what you had to say about my future employer."

"Future fiddlesticks!" June retorted. "You're not going to her, my dear; I shan't let you. If Raymond came home while you were there, you'd never have any peace."

Esther was lying back now with closed eyes. Over and over again in her mind she was saying to herself—

"I don't believe it—I don't believe a word of it; it's all cruel lies—first Mr. Mellowes and now June. They both hate him, that's what it is; but I don't believe a word of what they say." June was bustling about the room fetching cushions and a light rug which she had laid over Esther.

"You have a little sleep, and you'll feel heaps better," she said.

She went away, shutting the door quietly; and Esther hid her face in her hands.

She hardly knew why she was crying, she only knew that she was utterly miserable.

She took Ashton's last letter from her dress and read it through again—how could any one, reading it, doubt that he loved her? How could any one, knowing his careful thought for her, believe that he was the detestable personality June and Micky had described?

She kissed the signature passionately. Nobody in all the world counted but this one man.

She got up and went over to June's desk, which both girls used; she felt that she must write to him and tell him how much she wanted him.

When she had finished writing she looked to the head of the paper on which she had written for the address, and then she saw a postscript scribbled in a corner which she had not noticed before.

"Don't write to me here—I shall have left this hotel by the time you get my letter. I will write again as soon as possible."

It was like a door with iron bars being closed in her face; she could not write after all! She could have no relief for all her longing and unhappiness; she must just wait and wait, eating her very soul out, till he wrote again.

She tore up what she had written and threw it into the fire.

"The phantom lover"—June's half playful, half mocking words came back to her with foreboding. Was he indeed only a phantom lover? Just a creation of her own brain and desire? She tried to thrust the thought from her; she was tired and fanciful; in the morning she would be all right; it was not fair to him, it was not fair to herself to be so doubting. She went back to June's couch and curled up amongst the mauve pillows; life was so hard, so disappointing; it gave so little of all that one desired; the tears fell again, presently she cried herself to sleep.

June came back on tiptoe; she stole across the room and looked at Esther, then she went back to the hearthrug to keep Charlie company.

The fire had died down and she replenished it as quietly as she could, putting a knob on at a time with her fingers.

As she leaned over to poke them softly together she caught sight of a scrap of paper lying in the grate. It looked like part of a torn letter, and without thinking June picked it up—the one word "dearest" stared up at her in Esther's writing.

June looked at it for a long moment, then she turned her head and glanced at Esther, still sleeping.

June frowned; she hunched her shoulders impatiently.

"More phantom lover, I suppose," she told herself crossly; she threw the little scrap of paper into the fire and watched it burn with a sort of vixenish delight.



CHAPTER XII

"I've decided to accept Mrs. Ashton's offer," said Esther suddenly.

It was the following afternoon, and she had been helping June paste labels on to the little mauve pots. She looked up as she spoke, with the paste brush still in her hand and her fingers all sticky.

"Did you hear what I said?" she demanded guiltily.

"Yes, I heard," June said rather tartly. "And I think you're a mean pig. However, go on! Have your own way! Don't mind me."

"It isn't that at all," Esther declared. "But I must do something—I've been idle quite long enough. I shall be sorry to leave you, but I shall still pay for my half of the room."

"Thank you—thank you very much," said June drily. Esther flushed in distress.

"Don't be so unkind! It's not that I want to leave you. I've been happier here with you than anywhere else, but I must work, I can't live on nothing...."

"You could live on three pounds a week if you wished to. What do you suppose the phantom lover will say if he knows that his money hasn't helped you, and that you're going to make a drudge of yourself?"

"I shan't be a drudge—I——"

June broke in impatiently.

"Oh, very well—I don't want to argue, but I think it's mean of you. If you really liked me you'd stay...."

"I shall come to see you whenever I get any time off."

"Yes, once a week for two hours, I suppose—and when I shall probably be out."

"I shall write first and let you know when I'm coming."

June took no notice; she screwed the lid on to a perfume bottle and wiped her fingers on the white overall.

"You needn't put any more labels on," she said shortly. "I can do the rest myself."

She took the tray away from Esther and carried it into her bedroom; when she came back there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. Esther looked distressed. She felt that she was behaving meanly, and yet she meant to go to Mrs. Ashton's.

"Micky Mellowes is coming directly," June said tartly. "If you don't want to see him you'd better go. I know you hate him...."

Esther turned scarlet. She took off the apron she had borrowed from June and turned to the door.

Before she reached it June followed.

"I'm a pig. I apologise humbly! Please stay. Why don't you box my ears when I speak to you like this?" She dragged Esther back to the fire. "I'm wild because you've made up your mind to leave me. Our friendship doesn't mean anything to you.... There's Micky—he'll want to know why I've been crying. Amuse him for five minutes, there's an angel, and I'll come back."

She was gone in a flash.

A smiling Lydia showed Micky into the room. Lydia liked Micky; he was always courteous, and he had been generous with his tips on each occasion that he had visited the house.

Micky looked a little embarrassed when he saw Esther. He glanced quickly round the room. "June ... I——"

"She's coming in a moment," Esther explained. "Won't you sit down?"

Micky sat on the arm of the big chair; he was cold; he leaned forward, rubbing his hands vigorously. Esther watched him critically.

She had told June that she did not consider him in the least good-looking, but now the thought crossed her mind that this had not been quite a fair thing.

He was tall and well made, and he had brown hair that grew well about his temples, and waved slightly where it parted.

His nose was nothing particular and slightly crooked, and his eyes were nondescript in colour, but kind ... so kind! Esther remembered it was the first thing she had noticed about him the night they met.

He looked up.

"Well," he said, "have you found another berth yet?"

"I'm going to Mrs. Ashton's," Esther said.

She was amazed at the sudden change in his face; a look of furious anger flashed into his eyes; he rose to his feet.

"You're not serious?" he said quietly.

Esther laughed; she felt painfully nervous without knowing why.

"Serious? Indeed I am!" she answered. "Mr. Mellowes, what are you doing?..."

Micky had caught her hands. Jealousy was driving him with whips of fire—jealousy of this phantom lover, whom he himself had created.

"You're not to go," he said hoarsely. "I—I—I can't bear to think of you having to work for your living. There's no need—it's all nonsense. You'd hate being at the Ashtons.... Esther——"

She wrenched herself free; she was white to the lips.

"You must be mad!" she said. "How dare you speak like this? What is it to you what I do? How dare you try to interfere? What business is it of yours?"

Micky laughed shakily; he had recovered himself a little now.

"It's everything to me," he said rather hoarsely. "You must know that it is. Esther, will you marry me?"

If only premeditated proposals were made, there would be few marriages in the world. Ten minutes ago, when Micky Mellowes walked into the room, he had no intention of asking Esther to marry him, but now it seemed as if he had come for that express purpose as he stood there, grimly obstinate.

There was a moment of silence; then Esther drew herself up.

"I think you must be mad," she said. "I've only seen you once or twice in my life. I have told you that I am already engaged."

"I know, but it makes no difference," said Micky. "I ask you to marry me—will you marry me?"

She drew back from him.

"You must be mad."

Micky laughed. "You've said that two or three times already, but I assure you that I'm quite sane. I loved you the first moment I ever saw you, but, of course, you won't believe it. However, that doesn't matter—you haven't answered my question. Will you marry me?"

"You know I am engaged—how dare you?..." She backed away from him till she was close to the door. Micky laughed savagely.

"You needn't be afraid—I'm not going to hurt you—I'm not going to move from this hearthrug, but I should like you to answer my question. Once again, will you marry me?"

"No——"

He forgot his promise and took a step towards her.

"I can make you happier than any other man possibly could. I've never cared for a woman in my life till I met you...."

"I wouldn't marry you if you were the only man in the world—I—I don't even like you...." Her voice shook with anger now. "My answer is no—no—no! I shall never change my mind if I live to be a hundred ..." she added vehemently. The words seemed forced from her by something in his eyes.

"You will," said Micky calmly, though he felt anything but calm. "Women always do; but if you don't feel like changing it just at this moment, will you please tell June I am here? I came to see her, and I'm tired of waiting...." He turned away and went back to his seat on the arm of the big chair as if nothing had happened, but his hand shook when he tried to light a cigarette.

When June came back he was absently turning the pages of a magazine; she looked at him for a moment, then began to laugh.

"Micky! What in the world has happened to you lately? Do you always read a paper upside down?"

Micky started, looked down at the magazine, and said a bad word; then he laughed too, and flinging the magazine across the room got to his feet, stretching his long arms.

"Where's Esther?" June demanded. "I asked her to stay and amuse you till I came back...."

"She did her best," said Micky drily. "But I am afraid I bored her."

June looked annoyed.

"I do think you two might try and like one another, if only for my sake," she said. "It's so perfectly obvious that you hate one another, and I cannot see why for the life of me."

"One of your instinctive hates, perhaps," Micky submitted, with a touch of irony. He went back to the chair.

"Miss Shepstone tells me she has found a berth," he said, after a moment. June nodded.

"Yes. Did she tell you with whom?"

"Yes; Mrs. Ashton."

Something in the tone of his voice made June look up quickly.

"Well?" she said.

Micky shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing—I dared to suggest that perhaps she would not like the place, and she flew at me."

June laughed.

"That's just like Esther; she asks for your advice, and then——"

"She didn't ask for mine," Micky cut in. "I very kindly volunteered the information."

"Oh!" June was on her knees now toasting buns.

"They're stale," she informed Micky candidly. "But you won't know it when they're toasted."

Micky watched in silence. He was wondering if June had heard anything of his conversation with Esther; they had both spoken rather loudly. He was also wondering whether he should tell June the whole story.

"You must make allowances for her," June said briskly, as he was still hesitating. "I know she's worried about this man. I discovered another thing this morning, Micky"—she turned with a sudden jerk to look at him, and the bun fell off the fork into the fire.

Micky laughed.

"Well, what have you discovered now?" he inquired.

"Why, that she can't write to him—he doesn't give her an address—or, if he does, he takes good care to move on before she has time to answer his letters. It looks to me, Micky, as if that young man is shirking his responsibilities. If you ask my candid opinion, Esther won't ever see him again."

Micky said "Rot!" rather uncomfortably. "If the fellow is travelling—moving about...."

"He could give her an address and have the letters sent on, couldn't he?" June demanded.

Micky rubbed his chin.

"What's she want to write to him for?" he asked presently.

June swung round, and a second bun almost shared the fate of the first, but she grabbed it back in time.

"What does she want to write to him for?" she echoed with scorn. "My poor child, what does any one want to write to any one for? She's in love with the man, and when you're in love you simply have to write it down—at least, that's what I understand from people with wide experience. Esther's bursting to write and tell the phantom lover how much she loves him and what a wonderful man he is; as a matter of fact she does write to him, and tears the letters up again, and that's no satisfaction. I wish to goodness he'd get run over and done with," she added exasperatedly.

"I don't suppose she wishes it," said Micky.

"That's because she doesn't know what's good for her; he was probably the first man who had ever paid her any attention, and from what she says he's a bit of a swell, and I suppose she was flattered...."

"Rot!" said Micky violently; it made him boil to hear June say things like this. Ashton superior to Esther? It was like the man's confounded impudence to even think such a thing.

"Not such rot," June said wisely. "And that's what all the trouble is about, or my name's not what it is. He has a stuck-up old cat of a mother who won't condescend to know Esther.... What did you say?"

"Nothing," said Micky. He got up and began strolling about the room with his hands in his pockets, and June finished toasting her buns and made the tea.

"I'll just go up and tell Esther," she said. She went out of the room and upstairs.

"Tea," she announced cheerfully, knocking at Esther's door; she turned the handle and went in. Esther was standing by the window looking out into the neglected garden at the back of the house; she turned.

"I'm not really hungry, and if you'd like to have Mr. Mellowes to yourself——" she began.

June stared at her.

"My dear," she said then drily, "if I'd wanted to have Mr. Mellowes to myself I should have married him long ago; so don't pretend you're not dying for one of the stale but toasted buns."

She linked her arm in Esther's, and they went downstairs together. Esther did not want to come, but it seemed easier to give way than to make excuses. She took the chair which Micky brought forward; she felt a little nervous and ill at ease. Once, when their eyes met, she found herself colouring sensitively.

Micky let her alone in a marked fashion and talked to June. He had found the man he had been looking for for months, he declared, a good business man, honest——

"Really honest, Micky?" June asked, laughing.

"Really honest," Micky maintained. "Do you think I'd put you on to him else? I've told him all about you. I went out to lunch with him yesterday and we talked face creams and vanities till my head reeled. He's full of ideas, bursting with fresh notions for advertising. He didn't say so in actual words, but he thinks you'll be a little gold mine if you'll put yourself in his hands."

June's eyes sparkled; she jumped up from her chair, put her arms around Micky's neck, and gave him a sounding kiss.

"You're a dear," she said, "and I just love you!"

Esther glanced up quickly. June need not have done that, she thought with a touch of irritation, but Micky only laughed.

"Come here and you shall have that back with compound interest," he said, but June shook her head.

"That's enough for to-day, and Esther's looking shocked to death."

"I'm not—I never thought about it," Esther protested indignantly. June laughed.

"Well, you looked angry anyway," she declared. "Didn't she, Micky?"

"I'm afraid I didn't notice," he answered coolly, but he had, and for a moment his pulses had leapt at sight of the anger in Esther's eyes; she could not surely hate him as much as she pretended if it annoyed her that June should kiss him.

But she was indifferent enough now at all events; she was leaning back listlessly, her eyes fixed on the flames, her face sad and thoughtful.

She was thinking about Ashton, Micky told himself savagely, wishing he were here, no doubt—Ashton, who even at that moment was probably running round Paris with Tubby Clare's little widow.

June was packing the tea things on to the tray and humming a snatch of song. Esther rose.

"Let me do that—you cleared away yesterday."

She took the tray.

June asked Micky for a cigarette.

"I've got heaps somewhere," she said vaguely. "But I never know where they are." She looked over to Esther. "Don't bother to put the cups away now," she said. "Come back and be cosy."

She was rather surprised that Esther obeyed; she had quite expected her to go off and not return.

Fond as she was of Esther, she could not quite make her out; she was full of surprises. It was getting dusk, and the room was full of shadows.

"Shall I light up?" Micky asked. "Or do we like the firelight?"

"We like the firelight," June said promptly; she nestled down amongst her mauve cushions.

Micky was sitting straddle-ways across a chair between the two girls, and Esther had drawn back a little so that her face was in shadow. Micky glanced at her once, but could only see the glint of firelight on her hair and her hands clasped listlessly in the lap of her frock. He glanced at them; she still wore Ashton's ring, with its three inferior stones; he wondered how long the farce was going to be kept up and what would happen to bring it to an end.

"If some one doesn't talk," June said drowsily, "I shall go to sleep."

There was a quiet peacefulness in the cosy little room. Micky crossed his arms on the chair back and leaned his chin on them, staring into the fire, and Esther, from her place in the shadows, looked at him unobserved.

Not in the least good-looking, she told herself again, and yet in common fairness she had to admit to herself that there was something about Micky Mellowes that was undeniably attractive.

She liked the obstinacy of his chin—she liked the way his hair grew, and the shape of his hands—strong, manly hands they were, in spite of the fact that they had probably never done a day's useful work in their lives. Of course he was too well dressed. To begin with, there was no need to wear grey spats over his shoes, or to have his trousers so immaculately creased. She forgot that she had liked Ashton to indulge in both these weaknesses.

Micky was whistling a snatch of a love-song under his breath. Esther did not know what it was; she had never heard the melody before, but something in the softly sentimental notes brought the tears to her eyes; before she was aware of it they were tumbling down fast.

June sprang suddenly to her feet.

"Why are we all mooning like this? Micky, give me a match." She almost snatched the box from him and lit the gas; the yellow flare flooded the room. Micky, glancing at Esther, saw the tears on her cheeks and the way she averted her head.

He scowled and rose to his feet, standing so that his tall figure shielded her.

"Well, I must be getting along," he said. He pulled out his watch and looked at it, but he never noticed what the time was.

He was thinking of Esther and the tears he had surprised.

"And when are you going to introduce me to this man who is to make my fortune?" June demanded crisply. She was standing on a footstool, trying to see herself in a glass above the mantelshelf.

"Esther, you might have told me what a sight I look! My hair is all over the place."

"I thought it looked nice," Esther said hurriedly. She knew Micky had seen her tears, and was silently hating him for it.

Micky answered hesitatingly, "I'll let you know—I'll fix it up and let you know. There's no hurry, is there? I don't want him to think we are too keen."

"But I am keen," June insisted. "Wouldn't you be keen if some one had told you you would be a gold mine, properly handled?" she laughed. "Oh, I forgot! money is no object to you. Well, bide your own time, my dear, but don't let it be too long.... Must you really go?"

"I'm afraid so; and, June——"

"Um!" said June, intent on another cigarette.

Micky fidgeted. He looked down at the carpet.

"If you don't hear anything of me for a few days you'll know I'm out of London...." He looked at Esther, but she was kneeling down by the fire stroking Charlie.

"Out of London!" June said in surprise. "Where are you going?"

Micky cleared his throat.

"I thought of running over to Paris for a day or two," he said.

"Paris!" They were both looking at him now. Micky was painfully aware of the eagerness in Esther's face.

"Yes; I haven't been since September. Anything I can do for you while I'm there?"

June raised her brows comically.

"Not for me, but perhaps Esther ... Esther has a great friend over there, haven't you, my child?"

Esther turned crimson from chin to brow.

"Mr. Mellowes is not at all likely to meet any friend of mine," she said stiffly.

Micky felt horribly sorry for her.

"Don't be too sure, Miss Shepstone," he said lightly. "It's a small world, you know, and it's the most unexpected things that happen."

But Esther seemed not to have heard.



CHAPTER XIII

Micky went to Paris. "No, I shan't want you, Driver," he told his man awkwardly. "I'm only going for a day or two. I—er—I shan't want you," he said again lamely.

He looked at the man guiltily, but Driver was as impassive as ever. "Very good, sir," he said. He could not understand what had happened to Micky; as a rule, he refused even to take his own railway ticket or speak to a porter. This new independence worried him.

But Micky went off cheerfully enough. He rang June up at her club the morning he started and told her he was really going. He heard her cheery laugh across the telephone. "Micky, you're not up to any mischief?"

"As if I should be!" he answered with dignity.

"I wouldn't trust you," she said promptly. "However, have a good time, and if you see the phantom lover, you might push him into the Seine for me."

"I'll remember," Micky said grimly. He hesitated. "Everything all right?" he asked.

She echoed his words, not understanding. "Everything all right? Do you mean the swindle? Oh, yes, it's going fine, thank you. I had another order from those American export people this morning."

"Good.... And—Miss Shepstone gone?"

"No, she's going on Saturday. Sickening, isn't it?"

"I don't think she'll stay long," Micky said soothingly. "It won't do her any harm to see how she likes it. Well, good-bye."

He stood for a moment after he had hung up the receiver, staring at it. He wished he had not arranged to go to Paris. Supposing Ashton took it into his head to come back while he was away? Supposing he went home and found Esther there?

He tried to believe that it was not at all likely, but at the last moment, as he got into the train and received his ticket from the solemn Driver, Micky said—

"You know where to find me if anything happens—if anything should be the matter?"

"Yes, sir." Driver raised wooden eyes to his master's face. "Was you expecting anything to happen, sir?" he asked stolidly.

Micky got red. "No, you fool!"

"Very good, sir," Driver retorted unmoved.

And so Micky went to Paris. It was dark when he got there, and he drove at once to a small and unpretentious hotel in a narrow side street, where he had never been before, but of which he had heard from Philips.

After all, it was only for a few nights. He did not want to stay in Paris long—Paris always bored him, but he made a little grimace as he looked up at the windows of the hotel. It certainly was a rotten-looking little show, he thought as he followed the concierge into the hall. This, too, was small and unpretentious, with a polished floor and wicker chairs scattered about. There was a kind of winter garden leading from the lounge, where a few neglected palms and ferns were struggling for an existence, and the whole place was silent, almost deserted.

Micky was too late for dinner, but a smiling host, with a short dark beard, assured him that he could have a most excellent supper in less time than he would enumerate of what that supper would consist. Micky said he didn't care what it was. He followed his suit-case up the wide, shallow stairs to a quaint little room with a low ceiling and polished floor.

He was beginning to feel more at home after all; one could be quiet here and not be eternally running up against people whom one knew; he felt more cheerful when he went down to his supper.

He asked the waiter if there were many people staying there. His tone of voice sounded as if he sincerely hoped there were not, and the waiter tactfully submitted that the place was almost empty.

Micky proceeded with his supper.

It was nearly ten o'clock, but he went out into the lounge when he had finished and sat down at a table in one of the most secluded corners.

There were pen and ink and a supply of hotel note paper, which Micky looked at with great satisfaction, before he took up a pen, carefully examined the nib, squared his elbows and began to write.

"My darling——"

Micky wrote the words hurriedly and covered them over with a sheet of blotting paper as if they made him feel guilty.

"I thought I should have been leaving Paris before now, but have been delayed. I shall be staying here till the end of the week and am writing this so that you can let me have a letter before I leave. I hope you have received both my other letters safely, and are quite well and as happy as possible, seeing that we cannot be together——"

He sat back for a moment and looked at this frowningly, then he wrote on hurriedly.

"I want you to miss me, you see—I want you to feel as I do, that there is only one thing to look forward to and that is when we shall be together again. Dearest, it seems now that I have never really told you how well I love you. Some day, if all that I wish for comes true, I will tell you the many things you would not let me say when we were last together...."

Micky's pen flew easily enough. For the moment he had forgotten why and for whom he was writing, and thought only of Esther as she had looked when he last saw her with the tears wet on her cheeks.

"Write to me as soon as you get this, so that I may have a letter to take with me when I leave. I shall watch for every post and count the minutes till it comes. I have arranged with my bankers to send the money to you every week. Dearest, if this is not enough, please let me know, and I will send some more...."

Micky scratched out the last five words, finally rewriting the whole page to add

"... Let me know and we must see what can be done. I cannot bear to think that you are wanting anything which it is in my power to give you. Tell me all about yourself; if you are well and happy—and how often you think of me. I shall write again soon, perhaps to-morrow ... and till then, and for ever, I am always yours, Micky ...."

He added his own signature without noticing it, then realised what he had done and rewrote the last page in a panic.

Supposing he had sent it!—it made him hot all over to think what would have happened. He would have to be more careful, he told himself severely. He carefully directed the letter and went out to post it, then he went to bed in the little room with the low ceiling and lay awake half the night.

Now the letter had gone he wished he had never sent it; after all, it was cheating Esther. It was not fair to make her write to him; he felt that he had behaved like a cur ... he tossed and turned from side to side. Perhaps she would not write! He almost hoped she would not. When at last he dozed off it was almost daybreak; when he woke it was eleven o'clock and the sunshine was pouring into his room.

He had a bit of a headache and felt wretched; he drank four cups of strong coffee and went out.

He avoided the popular thoroughfares; he sauntered about till lunch time and then went back to the hotel. Apparently the waiter had spoken the truth when he said the place was almost empty, for only two of the twenty tables were occupied beside his own.

Micky felt bored; he made up his mind to tell Philips what he thought of his recommendation when he got back to London. He slept all the afternoon, then dressed and went off to dinner at the hotel where he and Driver stayed when they were last in Paris. Here at least was a welcome; most of the waiters recognised him; the attention was excellent, and he got a decent dinner. The hotel was full, but though Micky looked suspiciously at every one who came in, he recognised nobody.

He wondered how long he had got to stay in Paris. Esther could not get his letter and send a reply that would arrive in less than three days; he calculated that he could not get back to London before Sunday morning.

And Esther was going to Mrs. Ashton's on Saturday.

He had just finished his dinner when the swing doors opened and a man came into the room with a lady in evening dress.

Micky looked at them, and his heart began to race—for the man was Raymond Ashton, and the woman, Tubby Clare's little widow.

Ashton saw Micky at once, and his face fell into almost comical lines of dismay, but he pulled himself together at once and spoke to the woman beside him.

Micky knew Mrs. Clare slightly; he rose and went towards them.

"I heard you were in Paris," he said. He shook hands with Mrs. Clare; she was rather a pretty little woman, small and plump, with round, meaningless eyes and a friendly smile.

"We're going to the opera," Ashton said. "Mrs. Clare is not staying here, but she very kindly consented to come and dine with me. Are you staying here, Micky? When did you come over?"

"Last night; and I'm not staying here. Just dropped in for some grub."

"You'd better dine with us," Ashton said, but he did not sound very enthusiastic.

Micky laughed. "Thanks, but I have dined. I was just leaving when you came in." He thought of Esther, and his face hardened. This was the man of whom she was thinking all day and every day; this man who was so obviously going to try and marry Tubby Clare's little widow.

He stood talking to them for a few moments, then excused himself.

"You haven't told me where you are staying," Ashton said.

"No—and I'm going away to-morrow anyway.... When are you coming back to town?"

Ashton looked quickly at his companion. "Oh, not yet awhile," he said.

"I see." Micky met his eyes steadily. "By the way, I got your letter," he said after a moment. "You didn't ask about that letter you gave me. I posted it——"

Raymond turned crimson. "The letter—oh yes, thanks—thanks, very much. You didn't take it then?"

"No, I posted it." Micky's voice was flinty.

"Er—thanks awfully!" Ashton said again. He twisted his moustache nervously. "I'll see you some other time," he said with a rush. "I'll drop you a line."

"Right oh!" said Micky laconically.

"I hope I shall see you again too, Mr. Mellowes," Mrs. Clare said. She thought she was saying the right thing. She thought these two men were friends, and she was sufficiently in love with Raymond to wish to be liked by his friends.

"Thank you, Mrs. Clare," Micky said stolidly. "But I am going back to London to-morrow; I am afraid I shall have very little time, though I should be delighted, of course——"

He felt rather sorry for this woman. After all, she was harmless and good natured, she deserved a better fate than to be snapped up by a good-looking fortune-hunter.

He was getting into his coat in the lounge when Ashton came after him. He looked worried and abashed; he asked a hurried question.

"Everything's all right, eh, Micky?—Lallie, I mean—I thought from the way you looked just now—she—she's all right—eh?"

"My dear chap—how should I know? She never answered my letter, though I sent the money, as you wished. I thought you would have heard."

"I told you I didn't mean to write—I said that I wanted the whole affair cut out," Ashton said irritably.

Micky made no response.

"She sure to be all right, anyway," Ashton said after a moment. "If she hadn't I should have heard—eh?"

Micky looked at him coolly.

"You rather sound as if you were expecting to hear she'd done something foolish—jumped off Waterloo Bridge or something——" he said drily.

Ashton laughed. "Well, you never know," he said heartlessly. "Women are such queer creatures—and Lallie was so excitable; she said more than once that she'd do away with herself—it's all rot, of course, but ... what did you say?"

"Nothing," said Micky curtly. "Good-night." He turned on his heel and went out.



CHAPTER XIV

Micky stayed in Paris four days; the four longest days of his life.

He wandered about killing time and wishing everything and every one at the bottom of the sea.

It seemed impossible that he had ever managed to have a good time over here—the noise and bustle of the streets got on his nerves; the things that had always amused him before bored him and left him cold; he thought of London with a deadly sort of home-sickness.

Esther did not mean to write to him, he was sure, and in some ways he hoped she would not; he realised that he was playing a mean trick on her, cheating her out of fond words and a love-letter to which he had not the smallest claim.

He tried to salve his conscience by making up his mind to leave on the Monday morning whatever happened; if there was no letter by that time there would never be one. Esther would have gone to Mrs. Ashton's. It was surprising how much he hated the thought of her being with Raymond's mother. During the interminable hours when he walked about Paris trying to kill time he thought out all manner of possibilities that might result from this unforeseen contingency. Mrs. Ashton might get fond of Esther—and if she got fond of Esther, well—who knew what might happen in the future in spite of Tubby Clare's little widow? He had not run across Ashton again, and he sincerely hoped that he would not.

When Monday morning came he packed his portmanteau before he left his room—there would be no letter for him, so he might as well clear out and go home without making a further fool of himself. There was not the least hope in his heart when he went to the bureau and asked for letters; the reply came as it had done each morning: "Nothing for monsieur...."

Micky turned away. He was half way to the dining-room before it suddenly dawned upon him that they did not know he was expecting letters in the name of Ashton—that he had forgotten to tell them. He went back hurriedly to the bureau.

"Any letters for Ashton?—I am expecting one for a friend of mine of that name...."

He waited breathlessly while the girl sorted through the pigeon-holes on the wall; he felt as if he could hardly breathe when she came back with a grey envelope in her hand.

"Mais oui...." she said smilingly. "I did not know it was for monsieur...."

Mickey almost snatched it from her; he had not even glanced at the writing, but he knew it must be from Esther. He sat down at the breakfast table with his thoughts in a whirl; he was sure that the waiter must know how excited he felt. He ordered coffee and rolls before he opened the envelope; he laid it down on the cloth beside him and stared at it very much as a sentimental girl might stare at her first love-letter, hesitating to open it, wishing to prolong the ultimate delight.

Finally he cut it open carefully and drew out the contents. His pulses were racing, he did not know if shame or delight were the greatest emotion in his heart; he glanced at the first two words and the blood rushed to his face.

It seemed almost sacrilege to read what she had written to the man she loved—he pushed the paper back into its envelope—he did not look at it again till he had finished his pretence of a meal, then he took it out with him into the rather dingy winter garden and sat down in the quietest corner he could find.

There he faced the greatest moment of his life; as to whether he should go on with this thing or wipe it out of his life once and for all.

Ashton had done with Esther; he was as sure of that as he was sure that Ashton meant to marry Mrs. Clare. This being so, was it wrong of him to try and give Esther some happiness in place of what she had lost? She had refused to marry him—she had said that she could never care for him; could he hope to make her change her mind? In his heart he was sure that he could; he wanted her so badly that it seemed to him as if the very force of his desire must compel some return from her.

He sat staring down the dismal garden with moody eyes. He knew it was a big risk; he thought of her as he had first seen her and as he had last seen her. He had never once really thought that she looked happy—she had never quite lost the shadow in her eyes or the droop to her lips which he had at first noticed, and he wanted her to be happy. He wanted her happiness far more than he wanted his own.

He took the letter from his pocket and looked at the address on the envelope. "Raymond Ashton, Esq...."

He hated the sight of that name—some day Esther would hate it too, when she knew how he had deceived her.

It was a great risk—but ...

"I'll chance it," said Mickey under his breath, and drew out the letter again.

"MY DARLING BOY,—You can never know how glad and happy I was to get your letter to-night and to know that I can really write to you at last. I have been so miserable during these weeks in spite of all your goodness—and you have been good. It makes me feel mean and ungrateful now when I remember how horrid I often was to you before you went away. When you come back I will make it all up to you, and show you how nice I really can be, because I do love you—I have never loved any one but you. Thank you so much for the money you have sent me—I was very much down on my luck when it came. They haven't a vacancy for me just now at Eldred's, or else they did not want me back, and I am going to try and find another berth. I am living in a new boarding-house, as you will see; it's ever so much nicer than the Brixton Road, and I shall be able to stay on now you are so generously sending me money. I have made a nice friend here, too, a girl named June Mason—she tells me that she knows your mother, and you, too!—I did not let her know how well I knew you, dear, as I thought perhaps you would rather I said nothing about it. She has a man friend who sometimes comes to see her—a Mr. Mellowes—she thinks the world of him, but I think he is detestable...."

Mickey caught his breath hard. After a moment he went on reading:

"June tells me he is very rich, and quite a 'somebody,' but I cannot see anything out of the ordinary about him, and he isn't a bit good looking. He knows you, too—but he does not say much about you. Dearest, it seems such a long time since I saw you—and I cannot help wondering if you really miss me and want me as much as I want you.... Sometimes I would give just anything to lay my head on your shoulder and say how much I love you. I'm very lonely, really; though June is so kind she isn't any one of my very own, is she? And now I wonder if you will be very angry with me if I ask you something? I don't think I should have dared to, only your last letters have been so dear and kind. Raymond, why can't I come out to you and be with you? We could get married, and we should be ever so happy even if we have to be poor—at least, I know I could, and from your letters, somehow I think it sounds as if you, too, have realised that there isn't much happiness away from me. I have had the offer of a good post—I won't tell you what it is, as I want it to be a surprise to you if I do take it. But if you would like me to come, I will just leave everything and come to you. Couldn't you send me a wire when you get this letter? I shall be longing and waiting to hear from you. I am a little bit afraid in my heart, really, now I have written this, but your last letter is lying beside me, and I keep peeping at it and reading what you say there, and somehow I feel that it's going to be all right.—

With all my love for ever and ever, LALLIE.

Mickey sat there staring down at her signature a long time after he had reached the end.

Then he moved slowly as if it cost him an effort. He was rather pale now, and there was a hard line round his mouth. So that was how she thought of him! Somehow he had not imagined how much it would hurt to read the fond words and to know all the time that they were written to another man. And to a man so unworthy! He thought of Ashton as he had seen him three nights ago with Mrs. Clare; of his callous questioning about Esther; of his almost brutal remarks, and it made his blood boil.

He could picture her so well—waiting for a wire that would never come.

He hated Ashton at that moment. His brows almost met above his eyes in a scowl as he went up to the bureau and asked for his bill. The smiling French girl sobered a little meeting his gaze; for once she did not dare to smile or dimple; she gave him his account silently.

"Ah, but they are funny, these English;" she told her father afterwards. "To-day he had no smile, the tall monsieur—not even one little smile!"

She watched Micky across the lounge with interested eyes as he sat down at one of the tables and proceeded to write a letter. It took him a long time, and twice she saw that he tore up what he had written and flung it into the wastepaper basket, but at last he had finished, and getting up, stalked away.

Celeste ventured out then—there was nobody about, and tiptoeing across the lounge, took the torn papers from the paper-basket. They were torn across and across, but on one or two slips the writing was visible, and she carried them back with her to the shelter of the bureau.

She spread them out on the desk before her, carefully piecing them together. She knew English quite well, and she soon made out one sentence:—

"It is not that I do not love you—I have never loved you better than at this moment—but...."

Celeste was sentimental. She gave a big sigh of sympathy for the big Englishman. "No wonder he has no smile!" she told herself. "C'est si triste!"



CHAPTER XV

It was raining and miserable when Micky arrived in London. The roads were wet and slippery, and every taxi and omnibus splashed pedestrians with mud.

Micky shivered as he stood waiting while a porter lugged his traps down from the rack. He had felt depressed in Paris, but now London seemed a thousand times worse. The sight of Driver waiting on the platform annoyed him. He answered the man's stolid greeting snappishly. He had wanted to come home, and yet now he was here he wished himself a thousand miles away. He leaned back in a corner of the taxi and shut his eyes.

The last four days had got on his nerves; Esther's letter in his pocket was like an eternal reproach.

Why had he come back at all? She did not want him—nobody wanted him in the whole forsaken world. The silence of his flat seemed a thing to be dreaded in his present mood. Driver's inscrutable face would, he felt, drive him mad. With sudden impulse he leaned forward and called to the chauffeur, "Stop—I've changed my mind—drive me back to the Savoy...."

There would be life there, at any rate—life and people and music—something to make a man forget the depression that sat like a ton weight on his shoulders.

He felt utterly at a loose end; he stalked moodily into the lounge. There were many people there, girls in pretty dinner frocks, with their attendant cavaliers. Micky glanced at none of them, till suddenly a girl who had been sitting on a couch listening rather listlessly to the conversation of a youth beside her, rose to her feet when she saw Micky, the hot colour flying to her cheeks.

For a moment she hesitated, waiting for him to look at her, to speak—but Micky had stalked by without turning his eyes, and after the barest second she followed and touched his arm.

"Micky...." she said breathlessly, and again "Micky," with an odd little catch in her voice.

Micky turned as if he had been shot, then stopped dead, colouring up to the roots of his hair, for the girl was Marie Deland.

She smiled tremulously, reading the distress in his eyes.

"I thought I was never going to see you any more," she said. She tried hard to speak casually, but her voice quivered a little. "Where have you been hiding all this time, Micky?"

Micky stammered out that he really didn't know—that he'd only just come back from Paris—that he did call to see her one night, but that they told him she wasn't in. She broke in there impetuously—

"I know; I'm so sorry. It wasn't my fault. I was there all the time. Mother——" She stopped, biting her lip, but there was no need to explain further. Micky could well imagine that it was by Mrs. Deland's orders that the butler had said "Not at home."

His heart was full of remorse as he looked down at Marie. Such a little while ago he had thought of her as his wife. He had fully meant to marry her.

He broke out again agitatedly—

"I know you must think I'm an awful sweep. I—I—oh, I can't explain." He glanced past her to where the rather vapid-looking youth to whom she had been speaking sat tugging at an incipient moustache.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again. "Who are you with?"

She told him that she was with her married sister and some friends.

"We're going to have dinner here," she said. She was longing to ask Micky to dine with them, but was obviously afraid to do so.

After a moment—

"I suppose I ought to be going," she said. "Violet will wonder where I am, Micky." She looked up at him with abashed eyes. "I—I suppose—you wouldn't—will you come out to tea with me to-morrow?"

Micky's face reflected the flush in her own; he looked away in miserable embarrassment. He knew that she felt the same towards him as she had done before that memorable New Year's Eve, and he knew that whatever happened now he could never feel the same to her any more.

He answered that he would be pleased, very pleased. Where should he meet her—or should he call for her?

"I'll meet you," she said quickly. "You know where we always used to go—I'll be there at four, Micky."

She put out her hand and Micky was forced to take it; he felt how her fingers shook in his, and he cursed himself for a brute as he turned away and left her.

In a way he was glad they had met. Any other woman would have given him the snubbing which he knew he so richly deserved. Deep down in his heart he wished that she had done so; anything would have been easier to meet than this trembling overture of friendship. He knew that the little abashed expression in Marie's dark eyes could only mean one thing, that he had cut her to the soul and that she still cared for him.

He left the Savoy without having any dinner; he went back to his rooms, where the imperturbable Driver was brushing and refolding his master's clothes. It had almost broken Driver's heart to see the way in which Micky had packed his things; he raised eyes of wooden reproach as Micky entered the room.

There was a pile of letters on the table. Micky flicked them through carelessly; nothing of interest—a few bills and a good many invitations; nothing from Esther—not even a note from June.

He sat down by the fire and proceeded to cut the many envelopes open. He kept thinking of Marie and wondering if it would be kinder not to meet her to-morrow, after all; if he could possibly write her a note that would tactfully explain the situation.

He just glanced at each of the notes as he opened them, and let them drop to the carpet at his feet. They could be answered later; there was nothing of importance, nothing he ... his attention was arrested:—

"DEAR MR. MELLOWES,—I wonder if it will be asking too much of you to come round and see me one afternoon for half an hour?—

Yours sincerely, LAURA ASHTON."

Micky glanced quickly at the address at the top of the paper—it was from Raymond's mother.

What in the world could she want with him, he wondered blankly. He looked across at Driver.

"This note—the one that came by hand—when did it come?" he asked.

Driver replied that it had been there for two days. He waited a moment, then went on brushing Micky's coat.

Micky felt rather disturbed.

Raymond's mother! What in the wide world could she want with him? Supposing it were anything to do with Esther ...

He wrote a note in reply at once and said he would call the following afternoon; he could just look in early for half an hour and go on afterwards to meet Marie; it was strange how he dreaded both these appointments.

He felt ridiculously nervous when he reached Mrs. Ashton's house. For the first time it occurred to him that possibly Esther would be here too.

He was kept waiting some minutes in the drawing room—minutes during which he wandered restlessly about staring at the pictures and the photographs.

There were many portraits of Raymond—Raymond at all stages of his chequered career, smiling and handsome. Micky turned his back on them with a feeling of disgust.

The door opened behind him, and, turning sharply, he found himself face to face with Mrs. Ashton.

She came forward with outstretched hand.

"This is kind of you, Mr. Mellowes. I did not know you had been away till I got your note this morning. I was wondering why I had had no reply to mine."

Micky blurted out that he had been in Paris—that he only came back yesterday evening.

Mrs. Ashton's face changed a little.

"Paris! Have you been with that son of mine?" she asked sharply.

Micky coloured. "I met him—quite by chance, though. We were not together more than a few minutes."

She smiled rather ironically.

"Have you got tired of him at last, then?" she asked. She moved over to the fire. She looked back at Micky quizzically. "I have often wondered how you put up with his friendship so long, Mr. Mellowes," she added rather sadly.

Micky felt embarrassed. He had always liked Mrs. Ashton. He stammered out that he and Raymond had always been very good friends.

She drew her chair a little closer to the fire.

"Very well—then, perhaps, you will be kind enough to answer a question I am going to ask you. Mr. Mellowes, what was the name of that girl at Eldred's whom Raymond was always about with before Christmas?"

The question was so unexpected that Micky was utterly taken aback. Before he was aware of it he had told a lie.

"I don't know—at least, he always spoke of her as 'Lallie.' I never once saw him with her, Mrs. Ashton—he never introduced me to her."

She looked rather incredulous.

"And yet you were such friends," she said.

Micky coloured.

"Our tastes were not always identical," he said rather stiffly. "I am not very interested in women, and he——"

"And he is," she finished for him. "There is no need to tell me that—I know my son. So you cannot tell me the name of this girl? I had hoped that you would be able to do so."

Micky met her eyes unflinchingly.

"I dare say I could find out," he said. "If she is still at Eldred's."

"She is not there." Mrs. Ashton looked up at Micky with an anxious line between her handsome eyes. "Mr. Mellowes, I have always prided myself on my sense of justice, and somehow lately I have got an uncomfortable feeling that when I forbade Raymond to have anything more to do with that girl it would have been better if I had advised her to have nothing more to do with him. He is my son, and perhaps it seems strange for me to speak about him like that, but you cannot have been friends with him all these months without finding him out, so I need not apologise. Raymond is just his father over again...." She paused, and a painful little smile curved her lips.

She looked at Micky rather pathetically. "There is no need for me to say any more, is there?" she asked.

Micky did not answer. He had heard many stories about Raymond's father, all more or less unsavoury, and he knew that from all accounts Mrs. Ashton had been greatly to be pitied during his lifetime.

"So if you can't help me in this," she went on presently, "I am afraid I have brought you here for nothing. I want to find out who this girl is, and see her for myself." She paused, but Micky's face was inscrutable.

In his heart he was convinced that she did not believe him, but he had no intention of telling her Esther's name; he longed to know if Esther were in the house, but, of course, it was impossible to ask.

It almost seemed as if Mrs. Ashton could read his thoughts, for she said suddenly—

"Do you know, Mr. Mellowes, that I am going to have a companion?"

Micky echoed her last word vacantly.

"Companion?—I—er...."

"Yes, a girl," Mrs. Ashton went on; "I have always envied people with daughters; a daughter is so much more to a mother than a son; but as I was not fortunate enough to have one of my own I am going to try having a companion. Raymond will be annoyed, I dare say—he has always pooh-poohed the idea when I have mentioned it to him, but now——" she shrugged her shoulders and sighed impatiently. "Well, he can no longer object, I think, seeing that he is to be married himself...."

Micky made a little quick movement, almost knocking over a vase of flowers standing at his elbow; he recovered himself with an effort.

"Married?" he said. "Why, I thought...." he broke off. "He did not say anything about it to me when I met him in Paris," he said lamely.

"No?" Her handsome eyes searched his agitated face critically. "Well, he is to be married all the same," she said. "I heard from him only this morning. He is engaged to Tom Clare's widow—Tubby Clare, I believe he was always called."



CHAPTER XVI

When Micky left Mrs. Ashton he raced off to meet Marie.

She was looking quite her prettiest, in dark furs with a bunch of violets in the breast of her coat, but Micky would not have noticed if she had been shabby, his thoughts were elsewhere. He did not even see that she wore the bracelet he had given her for a Christmas present, or remember that he had once told her violets were his favourite flowers.

He apologised breathlessly for being late.

"I had an appointment," he explained. "Raymond's mother; she wrote and asked me to call this afternoon." He hesitated, then added, "Did you know that Raymond is going to be married? Oh, but, of course, you cannot know, as Mrs. Ashton only knew this morning."

Marie's dark eyes opened; like most women, she loved to hear of an engagement or marriage.

"Really?" she said. "At last!—not to—surely not to that little girl at Eldred's?"

Micky flushed angrily. Did every one know about Esther? he asked himself savagely. He answered shortly that it was to Mrs. Clare, Tubby Clare's little widow.

Marie looked amazed.

"But we all thought——" she said, then stopped, remembering that Micky and Raymond had been great friends. "I hope he'll be happy," she said lamely.

Micky laughed shortly.

"I don't," he said. "He doesn't deserve to be."

She made no comment.

There was an excited flush in her cheeks, and a nervous note in her voice when she spoke; it was like old times to be here with him again, until she met his eyes across the little table, and then it seemed as if she were looking into the face of a stranger, a man who was like Micky—enough like him to hurt, and yet not Micky at all.

She aroused herself to amuse him. Micky had always told her she cheered him up in the old days, but this afternoon he answered her in monosyllables, and she saw with bitter mortification how often he looked at the clock. At last she was driven to remark on it.

"Micky, are you in a hurry to get away?"

She asked the question lightly, but there was a strained note in her voice.

Micky did not look at her.

"No—no, not at all," he said hurriedly. "But I suppose we ought to be moving soon...." There was a little pause. "It's been nice seeing you again," he added with an effort.

She sat staring down at her plate. Her pretty colour had faded; she was very pale, and she bit her lip hard to hide its trembling.

Suddenly she looked up at him.

"Micky—may I ask you a question?..."

"A hundred if you like."

She picked up a teaspoon and twisted it nervously. Micky watched her with apprehension; he knew what was coming, and his heart sank.

If only she would be content to leave things as they were; if only she would accept the friendship he was willing to give and close the book of the past for ever.

He did not understand that it was because she cared for him so much that at the risk of losing her self-respect and pride she must ask him for the truth, must know ...

He heard her catch her breath, then suddenly she spoke:

"Micky ... why was it? What have I done?"

There was a quiver in her voice that set him on edge; he could not stand the sound of unhappiness in any woman's voice, and he had once thought he loved Marie....

He answered without looking at her, realising that it was kinder to tell the truth out and have done with it.

"I meant to have written to you—I hope some day you will try and forgive me, but ... but...." He could not go on for the life of him, but he had said enough, and he knew that she understood.

"You mean ... you mean that there is some one else?" she asked with stiff lips.

"Yes." He looked at her white, stricken face, and felt himself a brute.

It seemed an eternity before she could steady her voice enough to speak.

"Is it—is it some one I know?"

"No, dear," said Micky very gently. "It isn't any one you have ever seen——"

She picked up her big muff suddenly and held it so that her face was hidden; the little word of endearment that had escaped Micky's lips had almost broken her down. This was the end of all she had ever hoped for, and for the moment she could not choke the anguish in her heart.

The following silence seemed unending; then she looked round for her gloves, and put them on, buttoning them with shaking fingers.

"I am ready if you are," she said. She did not look at him, but it felt like dying to walk beside him out of the shop and into the cold air and know that perhaps this was the last time they would ever be alone, he and she. Once her steps faltered a little, and Micky put out his hand to steady her, but she drew away from him.

"Please don't," she said in a whisper.

There was a taxi waiting at the roadside, and Micky called to the man. There was a slight cold drizzle of rain falling as he held open the door. He would have followed but she stopped him. "I should like to go alone, if you don't mind."

He looked up, and for a moment he saw her face in the light of the taxi lamp; such a white, quivering face it was.

"Marie!..." said Micky in a choked voice, but she waved him away.

He stood there on the kerb till the taxi had whirled out of sight, and once again he asked himself desperately if it were all worth while, if he were not throwing away the real thing for a chimera.

There was probably a no more unhappy man in London at that moment than Micky Mellowes.



CHAPTER XVII

Esther had spent a week indoors with a cold, and it was the longest she could ever remember. June was kindness itself, and fussed and petted and made much of her, but the days dragged.

There was only one thing to live for—the post! And though the rat-tat rang through the house three or four times a day, there was never anything for Esther.

Her own letter to Paris remained unanswered. The telegram for which she longed never came.

June watched her with a mixture of sympathy and impatience.

What was the good of putting all one's eggs in the same basket? she asked herself crossly. What was the good of falling in love if nothing better than unhappiness ever came of it? She began to hate the phantom lover, as she called him, with increased hatred.

"I don't think you're strong enough to go yet, you know," she said to Esther one afternoon when they were sitting together in the firelight. "Write and tell Mrs. Ashton you can't come for another week, or that you can't go at all. I do wish you would."

Esther shook her head.

"I promised to go, and I must do something. I shall be all right by Monday. Mrs. Ashton has waited long enough as it is."

She looked pale and ill, June thought angrily, and put it all down to "that man."

"Has Mr. Mellowes come back from Paris yet?" Esther asked suddenly. June was faintly amazed; Esther never spoke of Micky. She answered rather dubiously that she did not know.

"I expect he's having such a good time that he'll stay for weeks," she added. "I wish he would come back, I want him to get on with my business...."

"Mr. Mellowes...." announced Lydia at the door.

June scrambled to her feet with a scream of delight.

"Micky! you villain! we were just talking about you. When did you come back? Why haven't you been before? What have you been doing?"

She dragged him over to the fire; she fussed over him and told him he was just in time for tea.

"Esther's been indoors a week with a cold," she explained. "No, don't you get up, Esther. Micky won't mind...." She pushed Esther back amongst the sofa pillows. "Poor darling! She's really been quite ill," she declared.

Micky said formally that he was sorry that she was not well, but that the weather was enough to kill anybody; he added that he had been in town since Sunday, but ...

"Four days, and you've not been to see me!" said June. "What a shame, to neglect us so!"

"I've been busy," Micky defended himself; "I expected to hear you had gone to Mrs. Ashton's," he said to Esther.

She raised her eyes.

"No—I am going on Monday."

"Oh," said Micky blankly.

June had opened the door and was calling over the balusters to Lydia for hot water.

"And bring lots of it," she said. "We're thirsty...." She came back into the room. "The postman's just come," she said with a nod and a smile to Esther. "Lydia will bring our letters up if there are any." She turned again to Micky. "Well, truant! And what have you been doing? Having a good time?"

"No, I have not," Micky said decidedly. "Paris is not what it used to be, or I am not!" He laughed. "How's the swindle?"

June began to answer, but stopped as Lydia came into the room. She brought a jug of hot water. June danced up to her.

"No letters? I thought I heard the postman."

"One for Miss Shepstone," Lydia said smilingly.

Micky looked across at Esther—her whole face was transformed as she turned eagerly with outstretched hand.

There was a moment of silence, then she gave a little sigh of utter contentment. June sniffed inelegantly—Micky looked hard into the fire; his heart was thumping; that letter ought to have been delivered yesterday, he knew; it was cursed bad luck that it should arrive while he was here.

There was a little silence in the room while Esther opened it. She seemed to have forgotten that she was not alone. Her pale cheeks were flushed and her whole face tremulous.

June was bustling about, making a great clatter with the teacups. Micky got up and began to prowl round the room; his nerves felt jumpy. Because he knew so well who had written that letter he was sure every one else must know it too. Presently June nudged him as she passed. When he looked at her she made a little grimace.

"Isn't it awful?" she said in a stage whisper.

Micky smiled stiffly.

"Can't I help get the tea?" he asked. "Toast some buns or something?"

"There aren't any to toast," she told him. "Sit down and make yourself at home. Esther!"—she raised her voice elaborately—"are you going to have any tea, my child?"

Esther had come to the end of her letter; she folded it hurriedly and put it away; she cast a quick look at Micky, but he did not see it. June was chattering away.

"So Esther is going on Monday," she informed Micky, "and I shall be left once more to my lonesome. I'm not at all sure that I shall stay on myself," she added. "It's been so jolly having some one to share this room with me that I'm not looking forward to my own eternal company."

There was a little silence.

"I may not go after all," Esther said suddenly. There was a note of nervousness in her voice. She coloured, meeting June's amazed eyes.

June screamed.

"Not go! Well, I never!" She sat down in a heap on the hearthrug staring at Esther. "I never knew such a girl," she complained. "Micky, I appeal to you...."

But Micky was not going to be appealed to; he was stolidly stirring his tea.

"I suppose I can change my mind if I like?" Esther said.

"Oh, it isn't you who have changed your mind," June cut in ironically. "It's something that phantom lover of yours has said in his letter. Own up, now."

"Well, and if it is?" Esther demurred. "I suppose he has a right to say what he likes, hasn't he?" But she was laughing as she spoke; she felt wonderfully happy and light-hearted. "I believe you're jealous," she declared.

"Jealous, indeed!" said June indignantly. Then suddenly she sighed. "Well, perhaps I am; who knows? What does he say? or mayn't we ask?"

Micky had stopped stirring his tea; there was a sort of intentness about his big figure.

Esther looked at him, and suddenly she stiffened.

"Never mind what he says," she answered defensively.

June laughed.

"Oh, all right—sorry if I was inquisitive." She deliberately turned and began talking to Micky; Esther was left to herself, but she did not mind, she had enough now to think about. The longed-for letter had come at last.

She woke from her reverie with a start when Micky rose and said he must be going.

"And don't you be so long before you come and see me again," June said in her downright way. "And don't go without that sample, Micky—it will go in your pocket quite easily." She darted off to her room to fetch it, and Micky moved a step nearer to Esther.

"You have had good news?" he said.

She looked up startled.

Micky's eyes flamed.

"That being so, of course, it is useless for me to ask if you have changed your mind yet?" he said again.

Esther gave a stifled cry.

"Are you trying to insult me?" she asked under her breath.

He half smiled.

"I am, if it's an insult to ask you to marry me."

There was no time for more. June came back then with her hands full of samples, which she proceeded to stuff into Micky's pocket.

He submitted laughingly.

"Supposing I get run over!" he said resignedly. "People will think I've been robbing a beauty shop."

"It will be a fine advertisement for me, anyway," June declared. "Can't you see all the halfpenny papers coming out with great headlines? Tragic Death of a Young Millionaire! Pockets Stuffed with June Mason's Skin Food!" She laughed merrily. "That would be worth something, eh, Micky?"

"Heartless woman!" he answered. He turned to Esther. "Good-bye, Miss Shepstone."

Esther was glad that he did not offer to shake hands with her; she was glad that June went to see him off. As soon as the door had closed on them she took her letter out again; she pressed the paper to her lips.

It was worth waiting for, worth the heartache and disappointment; she closed her eyes for a moment and thought of Raymond Ashton. How she must have misjudged him in the past. It did not seem true now that they had ever quarrelled, or parted in anger; that she had ever been so unhappy that she did not want to live....

June came running up the stairs; she was singing cheerily; Esther smiled as she listened ... it must be wonderful to be always as happy and light-hearted as June.

"Well, dreamer?" said June. She shut the door with a little slam and came over to where her friend sat. "A penny for your thoughts."

She looked at Esther's flushed face in the firelight.

"And so everything is all right after all, eh?" she asked.

Esther nodded.

"And I'm not really going to Mrs. Ashton's after all," she said with a sort of shamefaced delight. "Only I didn't want to say so in front of Mr. Mellowes.... Oh, aren't you glad?" she asked anxiously.

"My dear, of course I am!" said June heartily. "But for the life of me I can't understand how it is that this man of yours has got such an influence over you. He's only got to hold up his little finger and you're on your knees. I'm beginning to think he must be a kind of wonder after all."

Esther did not answer for a moment.

"No," she said. "He isn't at all wonderful, really, except to me, and—and I love him, you see," she added shyly. "I suppose every man is wonderful to the woman who loves him."

"Until she's his wife," said June tartly. "And then she thinks he's all sorts of an idiot, and tells him so."

But Esther was too happy to take her seriously.

"You've never been in love," she said, "or you wouldn't talk like that."

"And I never wish to be in love, thank you," said June. "If you and Micky are samples of objects who are in love...." She made a little grimace, screwing up her nose in disgust.

Esther coloured.

"Micky!" she said, surprised into using his Christian name. "Is he in love? How do you know he is?"

"I'm not a bat, and I haven't known Micky years for nothing. He hasn't been himself for a long time. I've seen it, though I haven't said a word. He's in love right enough, there can't be any other explanation, seeing that he's too rich to ever be in debt, and they are the only two things that ever make a man miserable," she added.

Esther wondered if June was trying to sound her.

"I don't know who the wretched female is," June went on, puckering her brows. "I've tried to guess, but it's no good. There was a Miss Deland he used to go about with at one time, but I know that's all off."

"Was he engaged to her?"

"No—not really! But her people wanted it, and Micky didn't mind; he'd have drifted into it sure enough if something very tremendous hadn't happened to make him change his mind. I know Micky—he'd have slipped into matrimony as easily as he gets into a taxi, unless some one had turned him away from it." She glanced down at the letter in Esther's lap. "Tell me what he says," she coaxed. "Take pity on a poor creature who hasn't a phantom lover of her own, or a real one either," she added laughing.

Esther hesitated.

"I'm never quite sure whether you're laughing at me or not," she said nervously. "I know you don't mean to, but——"

June laid her hand on Esther's lap.

"I laugh at every one and everything," she said. "But it's only my way, and doesn't mean anything. Perhaps I'm a bit jealous—because you love this phantom lover so much better than you love me," she added.

Esther drew the letter from its envelope.

"I'll read you just a few little bits," she said shyly. The blood surged into her pretty face.

June leaned back in a corner and closed her eyes. She held a cigarette between her lips and puffed at it lazily. There was a little silence; then Esther said suddenly—

"I can't. It makes me feel too self-conscious. But he just says that he doesn't want me to go into any berth just yet. He says that he may be home very soon now...."

"Oh!" said June chagrined. "And then, of course, you'll be married and live happily ever after...."

"Yes," said Esther. "I hope so."

June opened her eyes.

Charlie, curled up on his cushion, started to purr lazily. Presently June flopped down on her knees beside him and began stroking his head.

"You'll let me have Charlie when you're married, won't you?" she said suddenly. "I am sure the phantom lover won't want him."

Esther did not answer; she hated herself for remembering that Raymond had once said he loathed cats.

"I told you how Micky went into a pond after a drowning kitten, didn't I?" June asked reminiscently. "I should have loved him for that alone, if for nothing else...."

Esther made no comment. She moved a little, and the letter slipped from her lap to the floor.

June picked it up.

"Or is it sacrilege to touch it?" she asked teasingly. She laid it on Esther's lap.

"Well, I couldn't help seeing the writing," she said, after a moment. "And, do you know, it's awfully like Micky's! If I hadn't known it wasn't his I should have declared it was," she said rather disconnectedly.

Esther grabbed the letter up.

"Well, it isn't his, anyway," she said sharply.

June laughed.



CHAPTER XVIII

Esther wrote to Mrs. Ashton that same night and told her she must regretfully decline the offered position; she gave no reason, but she permitted herself a little sigh of regret when the letter was dispatched.

She would like to have gone; she would like to have seen Raymond's home and to have got to know his mother, but it was his wish that she should not go.

She tried to believe that she was happy in the knowledge of his love, but in her heart she knew that she was restless and dissatisfied.

"If I had something to do I should be ever so much happier," she told June again and again, and June quite agreed.

"It must be awful, killing time," she said. "When I think of the life I used to lead at home before I started trying to improve people's complexions, I wonder I didn't go mad. Nothing but silly tea-parties and scandal.... Ugh! But all the same Micky and I agreed that you wouldn't like being at Mrs. Ashton's."

"Micky!" said Esther scornfully. "As if I care what he thinks...."

June looked mildly amazed.

"Oh, all right," she said smoothly. "I suppose I may mention his name sometimes, mayn't I?" She began to laugh. "Do you know that for once in my life I've been totally wrong with regard to you two? I was so sure you'd more than like each other—I even thought it quite possible that Micky might fall in love with you—you're so exactly suited to him."

"I'm glad you think so," said Esther drily. "I'm sorry I can't oblige you by agreeing."

June said "Humph!" She yawned. "All the same," she added after a moment, "I'm convinced that things would have been different if it hadn't been for that phantom lover of yours; you're so crazy about him." There was a touch of exasperation in her voice.

Esther flushed angrily.

"It's absurd of you to talk like this," she said. "Mr. Mellowes is the last man on earth I should ever have looked at, even supposing Raymond...." She had spoken the name before she was aware of it; in her momentary flash of temper the secret she had so carefully guarded escaped her.

It was too late to attempt to cover what she had said; she knew by the sudden expression of June's face that she had heard.

There was a poignant silence, then June sat up with a little jerk.

"Of course, that's let the cat out of the bag," she said curtly. "And you let me run him down! How mean, how unutterably mean of you, Esther!... I can't think now why I never guessed! Raymond Ashton!"

Esther had flushed scarlet.

"I never said that was his name," she tried to defend herself. "It's purely your imagination. And even supposing it is, do you think I mind what you say about him, or Mr. Mellowes either? Neither of you know him as I do, or you would never say such cruel, wicked things." She stopped with a sob in her voice.

"Then it is Raymond Ashton?" June said gently. She got up and came over to where Esther was sitting. "Oh, I am sorry I said anything about him!" she cried impulsively. "You ought to have stopped me. How on earth was I to know?"

"I don't care what you said; it's all untrue," Esther protested stormily. "Nothing you could ever say about him would influence me or make me feel any differently."

June got up for a cigarette; when she was nonplussed she invariably had to smoke; she took several agitated puffs before she looked at her friend again.

"Well, anything I said was in absolute innocence, you know that," she said in distress. "I'd no more idea than the dead that you and he.... So that's why he doesn't want you to go to his mother?"

"He doesn't know; I never told him it was to Mrs. Ashton's—I just said I had had an offer of a berth. I suppose you are trying to make out now that he——"

"Heaven bless the child!" June cried. "I'm not trying to make out anything! I'm struck all of a heap like! as Lydia says. So he's the phantom lover, is he?... Well—I can't find any words to suit the case."

"He's not a phantom lover," Esther protested. "He's a real lover, a very real lover."

June stopped and took her hand.

"I'm not going to let you quarrel with me over him, no matter how badly you want to," she said. "No man is worth two friends having a row over. I'm quite prepared to take him to my arms and love him if you do.... Oh, Esther, don't look like that!"

There were tears in Esther's eyes, and her lips were trembling. "You're making fun of me," she protested. "It's unkind of you."

June turned away; she wondered if perhaps, after all, she and every one else had thoroughly misunderstood Raymond, and if this girl's warm championing of him was deserved.

"He's not nearly good enough for her," she was telling herself indignantly. "She'll never really be happy with him."

"I hope you won't tell Mr. Mellowes, or any one else," Esther was saying defiantly. "I don't want my affairs talked over by every one."

"I shall not tell any one," June said quietly.

She stood looking down into the fire, and her face was troubled.

Presently she walked to Esther, and, stooping, kissed her.

"I'm awfully glad I know," she said. "It makes our friendship seem so much more real."

Esther smiled faintly.

But June was ill at ease. She felt instinctively that things were not all right.

"It isn't the man himself," she told herself obstinately. "It's some foolish, mistaken ideal of him that she has created."

She wondered what he really was doing in Paris. Micky would know—he and Micky had been such great friends. There would be no harm in speaking of him to Micky, at least that would not be betraying any secret or confidence.

She rang Micky up the following morning. She made the excuse that she wanted to see him on business. She took him to lunch at her club.

"You don't look well," was her greeting. "What's the matter, Micky?"

Micky frowned. If there was one thing he hated it was for any one to remark on his appearance. He answered brusquely that he had never been better in his life.

"By the way, I was going to write when you rang up," he said. "I've got some tickets for a first night to-morrow. Would you care to come along and—and bring Miss Shepstone?"

June beamed. She liked going out with Micky.

"I should love it," she said with enthusiasm. "I can't answer for Esther, though."

"Try to persuade her," he urged carelessly. "I don't suppose she's been about much; it would do her good."

"She told me she loves theatres," June admitted; "but the trouble will probably be that she hasn't got a dress."

"A dress?" Micky echoed vaguely. "Can't you lend her one of yours?"

June laughed.

"My dear boy, she's much taller than me and slimmer. ... However, I'll see what can be done. Where shall we meet you?"

"I'll call for you at seven. We'll have some grub first."

"Good! And if Esther won't come?"

"Oh, well, if she won't, you come along, of course; but try and persuade her."

"She's refused Mrs. Ashton's offer, you know," June said presently. She kept her eyes lowered; she felt self-conscious and guilty.

"Has she?" Micky did not sound particularly interested.

"Yes; the phantom lover objected, or something, and I think it's just as well."

"She said something about it when I had tea with you the other day."

June nodded.

"So she did. I dare say that wretched Raymond would have tried to make love to her if she had gone," she added deliberately.

"He's away just now," Micky said quickly. "I ran across him when I was over in Paris last week."

June looked up quickly.

"Did you? What's he doing there?"

"Nothing particular; he often goes over, you know."

"I can't stand that man," June said, after a moment.

"No?" Micky's voice was casual.

"I never could see why you were so thick with him," she went on.

Micky laughed lazily.

"Perhaps because I haven't your gift of second sight, my dear," he said.

"I shouldn't have thought it would need second sight to see what he is," June declared.

She looked across at Micky and was surprised by the hard expression of his face. "I hate men who flirt," she added. "Micky, do you know that I've got a kind of feeling about Esther's phantom lover that he doesn't really exist?"

Micky sat up with sudden attention.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I mean that he isn't really a tangible man," she explained haltingly.

Micky laughed.

"Oh yes, he is," he said.

June caught her breath.

"You don't mean—oh, do you mean that you know him?" she asked excitedly.

Micky met her eyes with a faintly ironical smile in his own.

"Yes, I know him," he answered hardily. "And so do you. My dear, I may be very green, but your careful questioning wouldn't deceive a mouse."

"Micky!" said June indignantly. She flushed all over her face, and her queer eyes blazed angrily. She really felt that she had a done a dreadful thing in having allowed him to guess.

"You needn't look so upset," Micky said. "You've not told me anything; I knew it long before you did."

"When? How—oh, Micky, do tell me!"

"There's nothing to tell. Ashton often spoke about her to me. I knew she was at Eldred's, and—well that's all," he added lamely.

"All!" said June disappointedly. "But surely you know more than that! What do you think of him? Do you think he really cares for her? Oh, Micky, do you think he's good enough for her?"

Micky looked away.

"I don't know that it matters very much what I think," he said drily. "She—she loves him apparently, and that's all that counts, I imagine."

"Yes, she loves him right enough," June admitted gloomily. "It was quite an accident that she told me his name, of course, and she made me promise not to tell any one, particularly you. I suppose because she knows that you and he were friends."

"Possibly, if she does know. I rather doubt if Ashton said much to her about me, though. He used to keep things to himself a good deal." He picked up the menu. "Aren't you going to have anything more to eat? I thought you were hungry."

"I'm not now; I'm too excited. Micky, when you saw him in Paris, didn't he say anything, ask you anything? Oh, it all seems so extraordinary!"

"My dear girl, what could he ask me?" Micky objected gently. "I never discuss—Miss Shepstone with him, and he is not in the least likely to tell me his private affairs, and I'm sure I don't want to know them."

June was silent for a moment.

"Esther is laying up trouble for herself," she said then. "Don't you think she is?"

"I haven't thought about it," Micky maintained stolidly. "And if you take my advice, you won't either. It never does to meddle with other people's affairs."

"But she's my friend," June objected hotly. "And do you mean to say that I have got to stand by and see her ruin her life?"

Micky shrugged his shoulders.

"She's not married yet," he said laconically. "Have some tipsy cake, will you?"

"No—I don't want any more."

"Well, I do. Waitress...."

It was a deliberate attempt to change the conversation, and June knew it; she sat back in her chair frowning.

She supposed Micky would not talk about Ashton because he was his friend; men were so absurdly loyal to one another.

"If you loved Esther as much as I do," she said suddenly, "you wouldn't stand by and say nothing while she goes and marries that man."

Micky was prodding the tipsy cake with a fork.

"She hasn't married him yet," he said stoically. "And if she's happy——"

"She isn't, my good man! at least only in theory!" June declared. "It's not Raymond Ashton she really cares for, but some wonderful person she thinks he is. She is looking at him through rose-coloured glasses."

Micky smiled.

"That's what most women do, isn't it?" he asked. "My dear girl, don't get so upset; I thought you wanted to bring me out to talk business."

"This is business, my business at least, even if you're not interested. No wonder you didn't want her to go to Mrs. Ashton's!"

Micky coloured.

"Well—I thought it would be better not, certainly."

June regarded him severely.

"You're a deep soul," she said. "I never even guessed that you knew anything."

"Why should you? And I don't know anything. Can't we talk about something else?" he asked plaintively.

It was getting on his nerves, this constant conversation about Esther.

"So you'll come along to-morrow, eh?" he asked presently. "It's a long time since we went for a little jaunt together."

"I shall love it." But June answered absently; her thoughts were still with Esther.

Silence fell. Micky had finished his tipsy cake and was leaning back in his chair, a cigarette hanging dejectedly between his lips. He had lit it, but it had gone out, and though matches stood beside him he made no effort to light it again.

June watched him across the table. He didn't look a bit well, she thought. What was the matter with him?

"You know, Micky," she said impulsively, "I had quite made up my mind that you and Esther were to fall in love with one another. It would have been ideal, wouldn't it?" she asked wickedly.

A little spasm crossed Micky's face, but it was gone so quickly June could never be quite sure if she had not imagined it.

"Ideal," he said quietly. "Shall we go?"

"I'll let you know about to-morrow," June said, as they parted. "I shall have to wear the same old purple frock I wore when you took me out last time; you won't mind?"

"Not a bit, as long as you come; and ... let me know about Miss Shepstone. If she won't come I'll give the ticket away."

"I'll let you know," said June vaguely.

She walked home deep in thought. So Micky had known all along? She was not quite sure that she was pleased with him for keeping the fact from her. They had been such pals, he and she; surely he might have trusted her and told her!

"I suppose I'm not to be trusted with a secret, though," she thought with a comical sigh. "Look how easily I gave Esther's away!"

Tea was ready when she got in, and Esther and Charlie sat curled up together in the firelight.

"I've got an invitation for us both to-morrow night," June said, even as she opened the door.

Esther looked up eagerly; she had had rather a dull day of it.

"A theatre," said June. "It's from Micky. I tell you at once, so you shan't throw cold water on it. He's got some seats for a first night, and asks us both to go. What do you say?"

"I haven't a dress," said Esther promptly.

"I told him you'd say that," June answered calmly, "and he said it didn't matter—or something to that effect. Micky never notices what you wear," she went on airily. "I'm going to wear an old purple rag that I've had for about forty years."

Esther laughed. "I dare say I can buy one in time," she said; she did not intend Micky to think she could not afford a frock. "I think I should rather like to go," she added shyly.

"Good!" June hid the amazement she felt. "Well, Micky's going to call for us and take us out to dinner first. It'll be a scrumptious dinner—Micky always does the thing in style!"

"It's kind of him to ask me," Esther said.

"Why?" June demanded. "Oh, you mean because you don't like one another? But that wouldn't trouble Micky; he'd take you out if he hated the sight of you, he's so kind-hearted."

"Thank you for a doubtful compliment," said Esther.

She was making plans rapidly in her mind. Micky had never seen her well dressed.

"I had another cheque from Raymond this morning," she said flushing. "So it will come in useful. I can get a ready-made frock—I shan't look so bad."

"You'll look an angel whatever you wear," said June affectionately. "I know a little woman just off the Brompton Road who'll fix you up," June said eagerly. "She's got the tiniest shop, but it's cram full of the sweetest things. She's awfully nice, too."

"I can't afford much," Esther said dubiously.

"She won't charge you much," June declared. "She's a friend of mine. She has my creams on her counter. It's a fine advertisement, you see. She gets lots of actresses and smart people in, and they ask what it is, and try a jar and send for more, and, there you are!"

Esther laughed.

"If she's too expensive——" she protested.

But she ended by paying much more than she had originally intended. There was such a gem of a frock—black velvet and a white transparent bodice.

"You look a duck!" June declared. "Doesn't she, Fifine?"

But the mirror told Esther how charming she really looked without any further words.

"I really ought not to have spent so much," she said as they went home. "But it is rather nice, isn't it?"

"Micky will be absolutely bowled over," June declared. "I shall have to take a back seat all the evening."

And Micky apparently was "bowled over," judging by the look that crept into his eyes when he arrived and found Esther alone in the sitting-room.

June was late, as usual; she called out to him from her room that she wouldn't be half a minute.

"There's no hurry," Micky answered quickly. He went over to where Esther stood, a little flushed and shy in her new frock.

"It's very kind of you to come," he said rather agitatedly. She looked up.

"It's very kind of you to ask me," she answered. She felt much more at her ease with him now. She knew that she was looking particularly pretty. "And it isn't the first time we have had dinner together, is it?" she asked.

He answered eagerly that he was glad she remembered; he had almost thought she must have forgotten.

"No, I shall never forget that, though it seems so long ago since that night. I was unhappy then, but now...."

"But now?" he asked as she paused.

"Now everything has come right," she told him. "You said you were sure it would, if you remember."

His face changed a little.

"I am glad I was such a good prophet," he said.

June came bustling in; she was flushed and breathless, and laden with flowers, fan, and gloves, all of which she dropped to the sofa.

"I'm quite ready. Esther, where's my cloak? Do find it, there's an angel. Oh, and my slippers—I've got everything else...."

But it was at least another ten minutes before they were in the taxi and racing away through the night.

"I've booked a table at Marnio's," Micky said. "I hope you like Marnio's, June?"

"I like anything to-night," she told him. "I'm going to enjoy myself thoroughly, whatever happens."

Micky glanced at Esther.

"And you, Miss Shepstone?" he asked rather nervously.

"Esther's too excited to speak," June answered for her. "Oh, are we here already?"

She led the way into the lounge of the big restaurant; Micky was well known here apparently.

"Every one in London knows Micky," June whispered to Esther with a sort of pride. "Look at the attention he gets!"

Esther glanced at him; probably anybody with Micky's money could get the same attention, she thought.

There were a good many people in the lounge; Esther looked at them interestedly. Some of the women were beautifully dressed, but the black and white frock held its own bravely.

"You look nicer than any of them," June told her. "I knew—hullo!—Micky's found a friend." She looked across to where he was standing, and Esther followed her gaze.

Micky was talking to two ladies—one of them was young and rather pretty, and the other—Esther's face flushed suddenly, and she bit her lip hard, for the other was Mrs. Ashton, Raymond's mother.



CHAPTER XIX

Esther unconsciously put out her hand and grasped June's arm; she would have given anything had it been possible to run away. She saw Mrs. Ashton turn and look towards where they were standing, and in another moment she had crossed the lounge and was shaking hands with June.

"I was just inviting Mr. Mellowes to come and dine with us," she said. "But he tells me he already has an engagement." Her eyes smiled at June. "I suppose you are the engagement?" she submitted.

June laughed.

A string band was playing a ragtime tune when they entered the restaurant. To Esther's unaccustomed eyes the room with its flowers and many lights was the most wonderful place she had ever seen. She kept close to Micky as he threaded his way through the small tables till he found their own, rather at the end of the room and away from the noisy band.