"Oh, for heaven's sake shut up," said Micky.

He had unfolded the paper, and there was a moment's tragic silence as he read the three lines Esther had scribbled.

"I have gone to Paris; I can't live without him any longer. Please don't worry about me...."

Twice his lips moved, but no words would come, then he broke out in a strangled voice—

"It's a joke—of course it is. She's done it to frighten us. Why, I—I only left her here half-an-hour ago—it can't be more. It's a joke—of—of course it is ... June...."

"A queer sort of joke," said June sobbing. "Poor darling! and a nice sort of reception she'll get when she reaches Paris with that cad there...."

"She'll never find him; she doesn't know where he is," Micky said hoarsely. There was a stunned look in his eyes—he took a step towards the door and came back again as if he did not know what to do.

June was drying her eyes and shedding more tears and drying them again; she looked at Micky angrily.

"Of course she'll find him," she said tartly. "She knows his address; the brute's written to her dozens of times, and she's written to him as well...." Her eyes searched his face with a sort of contempt.

"Well, what are you going to do now you've made such a glorious hash of everything?" she demanded.

Micky passed a hand across his eyes.

"I don't know. I'm trying to think. She can't have been gone long. She may still be in the village." He dragged out his watch. "There may not have been a train up to London—"

"Yes, there was; the twelve-twenty——" The eyes of both of them turned to the clock, and Micky gave a smothered groan.

"She must have gone by that. I must follow her, of course."

June bounced up.

"I'll come with you; I'll put on my hat again——" She made a dive for the door, but Micky caught her arm and stopped her.

"You can't; I can't take you with me. Be sensible, June—I'll find her and bring her back——"

She looked up at him stormily.

"She's my friend, and it's all your fault she's got into this mess. I told you not to interfere, and you wouldn't listen——"

It was a woman all over to rave at him now, but Micky took it patiently.

"Very well, it's my fault, and as it's my fault it's up to me to try and put things right. Don't waste time arguing—if I'm to catch her before she leaves England...."

June burst into fresh tears and sobs.

"You won't be able to; she'll get over there and have to bear it all alone.... Oh, Micky, I almost hate you when I think what we've done...."

Micky went out of the room; he went down to the road and mechanically started up the car; he was getting into his seat when June followed and called to him—

"You haven't got your coat or cap, Micky."

He came back; he hoisted himself into his coat, and turned away again; June caught his hand.

"I didn't mean to be a beast, Micky——"

He gave her fingers a squeeze.

"I know; it's all right; but don't keep me, there's a dear."

But she still clung to him.

"You'll bring her back safely, Micky—promise."

Micky turned away without answering.

"... I can't live without him any longer...."

In spite of everything, that was how she still felt about the brute.

When he got to the station he found there was no train to town for a couple of hours; he asked a sleepy porter an agitated question.

"Did you see a young lady go by the twelve-twenty—one of the young ladies staying with Miss Dearling. Oh, for heaven's sake hurry up and answer, man!"

The man scratched an unshaven chin with irritating consideration.

"Yes, I seen her," he said at last. "She came in running—caught the train to London—she...."

But Micky had gone; he would have to drive to town, he decided. If Esther had got to know the truth, better hear it from him than from that brute.

He drove off at breakneck speed. It seemed miles and miles to London; no matter how much of the winding road he covered, it unfolded again before his eyes, and mercilessly again.

He went straight to Charing Cross; he left the car in the yard and dashed in to inquire about trains; he searched a time-table; 12.59—3 o'clock—4.5 ... he looked up at the clock—three minutes past four now. Micky dashed across the big hall to a gate where a signboard said "Dover Express"; he had no ticket; he pushed by the protesting inspector; the guard was waving his flag; some one grabbed at Micky and missed as he flung himself breathless and panting into the last coach of the moving train.



CHAPTER XXVII

Micky sat for a few moments breathless and exhausted before he pulled himself together, and taking off his hat wiped his hot forehead.

The train was gathering speed; he let down the window with a run and looked out; the station was out of sight altogether; they were crossing the bridge under which the silent Thames flowed sluggishly.

A breath of cold air touched his hot face and he shivered suddenly and drew the window up once more.

Something had driven his thoughts back to his first meeting with Esther, to the cold silence of the night, and the hard desperation of her voice as she said—

"I didn't mean to go home any more—I shouldn't have ever gone home again if I hadn't met you...."

If she got to Paris before he saw her she would feel like this again. Micky groaned.

Fortunately he had the carriage to himself, but it was a third-class compartment, and not a corridor carriage. He cursed his luck here; if there had been a corridor he could have gone the length of the train and seen if Esther were on it. As it was, he would have to wait till they reached Dover, and even then perhaps he would never find her.

He tried to calm himself with the conviction that everything would be all right, but in his heart he was despairing; if he found Esther and brought her back she would hate him for the rest of his life.

What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little note she had left for June?

He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to dispatch from Dover—one for June, and another for Driver.

He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in the man's stolidness.

He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he going to do?

When the train ran into Dover he got to his feet with a sigh of relief. Quickly as he was out of the train a great many passengers had left it before him. He started at a run down the platform. He stared at every woman he met, hoping it would be Esther. The crowd was getting thick; he had to push his way unceremoniously past people; porters with luggage trucks jostled him; he began to lose his temper—he was just answering with great heat a man who had cynically asked "who he was shoving," when some one touched his arm.

"Micky...."

For a moment Micky's heart beat up in his throat; he turned quickly and found himself looking down into the brown eyes of Marie Deland.

If she had hoped for anything better, it must have been a shock to her to see the bitter disappointment in Micky's face. He stammered out that he had not expected to see her, that he was in a deuce of a hurry; he hoped she would forgive him, but—

"Micky, by all that's wonderful!" said another voice, and there was Marie's father, the good-natured old man who had pretended to agree with his wife when she raved against Micky for the cavalier way in which he had treated his daughter, but who in his heart had indulged in a quiet chuckle, thinking that Micky had been rather clever to escape from the toils at the eleventh hour.

He shook hands with Micky heartily enough; he, at any rate, had no grudge against him. He asked Micky a hundred questions.

"Are you going over, my boy? Come with us. I've got a reserved carriage on the Paris express. Delighted to see you. Marie and I are just off for a little holiday by ourselves."

He touched his daughter's arm. "Ask him to join us, my dear."

Micky did his best to answer civilly; he was in the deuce of a hurry, he said again; he had got to meet a friend but had missed her in the crowd.

"I came off in the deuce of a hurry," he said. He was chafing bitterly at this enforced delay; each moment was so precious.

Marie touched her father's arm.

"We are only keeping Mr. Mellowes, Daddy...." Something in her voice made Micky's eyes smart. It was hard luck that for the second time he was forced to humiliate her. He stammered out incoherently that he hoped they would forgive him, but he was in such a deuce of a hurry.... He went off abruptly.

Everybody was off the train now, and many people were already on the boat. Micky remembered that he had no ticket; he entered into a hot argument with an official, who listened to him skeptically, and took as long as possible to make out the ticket; even when Micky had paid he still looked suspicious.

The gangway was still down; Micky went on board and stood as close to it as he could, scanning the face of each passer.

Esther was not amongst them.

"Stand away there—stand away...."

Micky was pushed aside, and a couple of brawny seamen hauled the gangway on to the harbour. The gap of green water was widening slowly between the pier and the ship's side. Micky felt as if he were being exiled. Supposing she was not on the boat?

He turned away and searched the crowded deck. The boat was full, and most of the people were women, but there was nobody who looked in the very least like Esther.

She would be wearing the fur coat, he was sure—the coat he had given her!

One or two people stared at him curiously. Once he came across Marie and her father on the leeward side of the boat. For decency's sake he had to stop. He made an inane remark on the weather and said he thought they were going to have a smooth crossing.

Marie's brown eyes lifted to his.

"You haven't met your friend?" she said quietly.

Micky had a horrible conviction that she had not believed that he had any one to meet. He coloured in confusion as he answered—

"No—no. I'm sorry to say I haven't."

She moved away leaving him with her father. The old man slipped a hand through Micky's arm.

"Don't notice her, my boy; women are queer cattle—and I expect she's a little sore with you still."

Micky wished it was possible to jump overboard. He found the old man's friendliness more insufferable than the look of reproach in Marie's eyes. As soon as he could he got away; he went down the companion-way and wandered round despondently.

If Esther were on the boat she must have seen him and was deliberately keeping out of his way; he glanced in at the open door of the ladies' cabin as he passed.

Several pessimistic souls who had already made up their minds to be ill, although the sea was like a mill-pond, had arranged themselves on the couches, with pillows under their heads; as Micky passed the cabin some one slammed the door smartly in his face.

He went upon deck again and stood looking out to sea, with the wind stinging his face.

It was getting dark rapidly; the lights of Dover twinkled through the greyness. Micky stood and watched till they could no longer be seen. He was chilled to the bone in spite of his warm coat; he turned the collar up round his throat and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets.

His fingers came in contact with the telegrams he had written in the train and forgotten to send. He swore under his breath.

He kept out of the Delands' way when they reached Calais; he was first off the boat; he stood in the darkness trembling with excitement.

There were all sorts of people pouring past him—men, women, and children. They all seemed happy and eager—a couple of Frenchmen standing near him chattered incessantly; Micky moistened his dry lips; there was a little nerve throbbing in his temple.

Supposing he never saw her again! His hands clenched deep in his pockets ... supposing he never met the half-shy glance of her grey eyes—supposing he never heard her voice any more—or her laugh....

The sweat broke out on his forehead. For a moment he closed his eyes with a sick feeling of hopelessness, and when he opened them again he saw Esther standing there not half a dozen paces from him.

The glare from a huge arc lamp shone full on her slim figure and golden hair.

She was looking round her in a scared, apprehensive way as if not knowing where to go.

A wave of such utter relief swept through Micky's very soul that for a moment it almost turned him faint.

She was quite alone, but as Micky watched her he saw a French porter in a blue blouse go up to her and start chattering away, pointing to the small suit-case she carried and gesticulating violently. Esther shook her head—Micky remembered that she knew no French—but the man persisted, and she shook her head again in a frightened sort of way.

Micky covered the distance between them in a couple of strides.

"Esther...." he said, in a queer, choked sort of voice.

She turned with a stifled scream, and a most unwilling relief swept her face.

"Oh, Micky!" she said breathlessly. She put out her hand as if to grip his arm, then drew it away, moving back.

"How did you come here ... oh, how dare you follow me...?" she said passionately.

Micky took her arm very gently.

"We found your note," he said. "I had to come ... June said...." Then suddenly his calmness broke "Oh, thank God I found you—thank God!" he said hoarsely.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Esther seemed arrested by the emotion in Micky's voice.

She stood looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, then suddenly she broke out again—

"I don't know what you mean. I'll never forgive June if she sent you after me. I'm going to Paris. I'm not a child to be followed and looked after like this.... Let me go."

Micky released her arm at once. When he spoke his voice was quiet and rather stern.

"Please don't make a scene. I have followed you for your own sake. I know I can't stop you from going to Paris. I'm not going to try. All I do ask you is that you will let me speak to you. If what I have to say is useless, I give you my word of honour that I will leave you here and let you go on to Paris alone."

She looked at him with stormy eyes.

"I don't believe it—it isn't the first time you've lied to me...." she broke off breathlessly. Micky turned pale, but he answered evenly enough—

"You're quite justified in saying that; I'm not going to try and deny it. But we can't stand here all night—people are beginning to stare at us...."

"I don't care——" but she dropped her voice a little, and when Micky made a slight movement forward she followed.

It was cold on the quay—there was a fresh wind blowing, and Esther shivered.

"There's a restaurant place here," Micky said. "I want a meal if you don't; I haven't had anything since breakfast."

He found a table and ordered a meal, but he knew he should not be able to eat a thing.

"I don't want anything to eat," Esther said. She sat sideways in her chair away from the table; there was a pitiable look of strain in her face; she still gripped her suit-case tightly. When Micky asked her to be allowed to put it down for her she turned on him almost fiercely.

"Leave me alone—oh, leave me alone!"

The French garcon eyed them both interestedly. Any one far less keen of perception than he was could have seen that there was tragedy of some kind between this pretty, frail-looking girl and the tall man in the big coat.

"You said you were hungry, but you're not eating anything," Esther broke out irritably. "How much longer are you going to make me sit here? I want to catch a train to Paris to-night."

"There are no trains, except slow ones," Micky told her; "the express has gone half an hour ago. I can find you rooms in a hotel close by for the night...." His eyes met hers across the table, and he broke out, "Esther, for God's sake let me explain things to you. You've all your life before you; to-morrow, if you wish it, I'll go away and never see you again. But I can't let you go now without telling you the truth. I ought to have told you before—it was for your own sake I tried to keep it back...."

Her grey eyes searched his face disbelievingly.

"If you've anything to say against Mr. Ashton," she said, "I refuse to listen. I shouldn't believe anything you say, for one thing. Why, you don't even know his name—unless June has told you," she added breathlessly.

"June has told me nothing, but I know, all the same. I knew the first night I ever met you—when I left you and went back to my rooms, he was there waiting for me...."

She half turned, leaning across the table, and her eyes were like fire.

"He was there—who was there?" she asked shrilly.

"Ashton—Raymond Ashton," Micky answered.

There was a tragic silence, then Esther rose to her feet; she stood looking dazedly round her in a helpless sort of way.

Micky called for the bill—without waiting for his change he followed Esther out into the darkness. She offered no resistance when he drew her hand through his arm. He did not know what on earth to do with her; if he took her to an hotel it would mean leaving her, and she would probably go away in the night. They went back to the station, and Micky found a waiting-room with a roaring fire; he dragged one of the uncomfortable wooden benches close to it and made Esther sit down; he closed the door and came back to her.

There was so much he wanted to say, and for the life of him he did not know how to begin. She sat there so silently; she seemed to have forgotten his presence altogether.

Micky looked at her, and suddenly he broke out—

"Esther, speak to me—say something—for heaven's sake——"

She moved in a curiously heavy sort of way, as if it were an effort; she raised her eyes to his agitated face.

"This morning—was it only this morning?—it seems so long ago." She stopped for a moment, then went on again slowly. "When we were at that inn in the village—those men with the car—I heard them talking...." She stopped again.

"Yes," said Micky.

She frowned as if his monosyllable had interrupted her train of thought. She went on presently—

"They were talking about Paris—and Raymond." And now she raised her eyes. "If you say that it was true what I heard them say, I will kill you," she said with sudden passion. "It's a lie—just a lie to hurt me, to hurt me more than I've been hurt already." She stopped, panting. "It's a lie—say it's a lie," she drove the words at him.

Micky sat down beside her.

"If they said that Ashton had been married in Paris to Mrs. Clare it was the truth," he said.

He marvelled at the steadiness of his voice. He felt sick with shame at the part he was having to play. He went on incoherently—

"I knew it before you ever went to Enmore—it was in the London papers. I was afraid you would see it. I persuaded June to get you down into the country. I suppose I was a fool. I ought to have known it was only putting things off."

He looked at her and quickly away again.

"Forget him, Esther, for God's sake. He never cared for you; he isn't worth a thought."

She rose to her feet, pushing the hair back from her face as if she were distraught.

"How dare you say such things to me?" she said in an odd, choked voice. "You always hated him—you and June. Do you think I'm going to believe you? Do you think I could believe you for a moment when I have his letters—when he has shown me in so many ways how he cares?... I don't care what you say—I don't care if the whole world were to tell me it was true—I'll never believe it till he tells me himself...." Her breath came gaspingly; she looked at Micky's white face with passionate hatred in her eyes.

"How do I know it isn't all a made-up story?" she asked him hoarsely.

She hardly knew what she was saying; she leaned her arms on the mantelshelf and hid her face in them.

Micky let her alone; he got up and began pacing up and down the room.

He deserved everything she had said; it was all his fault that she had got this to bear. With the best intentions in the world he had proved himself a blundering fool.

Esther raised her head; she had not shed a tear, but her face was white and desolate.

She walked past him to the door.

"I'm going on to Paris to-night," she said. "Nothing you can say will stop me—nothing."

"Very well, then I will come with you."

She did not answer; she fumbled helplessly with the door handle. Micky came forward to open it for her, and their hands touched. A little flame of red rushed to his face; he put his shoulders to the door.

"You can't go like this," he said stammering. "How can I let you go like this? Whatever I've done, I haven't deserved that you should think as badly of me as you do. It was because I cared for you so much—I tried to save you pain ... perhaps it isn't any excuse, but it's the truth.... I'd give my very soul if I could undo what's gone, if I could save you from this."

She was not looking at him, but the cold contempt in her face stung him.

"You may despise me," he broke out again jaggedly. "But it's the truth I've told you.... Ashton never cared for you; that night at my rooms...." He stopped, he did not want to tell her, but somehow there was a compelling force within him that drove the words to his lips.

"He told me he'd had to break with you—that he was going away from London because of you. He said he must marry a woman with money—it's the truth, if I never speak again. He never cared for you, Esther—he was never fit to kiss the ground you walk on. He wanted to be rid of you—he——"

Micky stopped; Esther had given a little strangled cry, half-sob, half-moan, like some animal in mortal pain; for the moment she saw the world red; hardly knowing what she did, she lifted her hand and struck Micky across his white face.

"Oh, you liar—you liar," she said. The words were a hoarse whisper, her voice was almost gone.

She fell away from him, shaking in every limb; she dropped into a chair hiding her face.

Micky stood like a man turned to stone. She had not hurt him physically, though there was a red flush where she had struck him, but he felt as if the blow had fallen on his aching heart and his love for her.

It seemed a long time before either of them moved or spoke, then Esther dragged herself to her feet.

"Please let me pass," she said in a whisper, and Micky stood aside without a word.

He followed her out and inquired for a train; there was a slow one at ten-fifty they told him. He put Esther into a carriage and got a rug for her and a cushion. He knew she had had nothing to eat, and he ordered a basket to be made up at the refreshment-room. When he came back she was sitting in a corner with her eyes closed. She had taken off her hat, and her golden hair was tumbled about her face. She took no notice when he put the rug over her; she did not even open her eyes when the train started.

Micky sat down in the opposite corner. He felt more tired than he had ever done in all his life, and yet he knew that he could not sleep; his brain seemed as if it would never rest again. He sat with face averted from the girl in the corner, looking out into the darkness.

It seemed strange to realise that he had made this same journey dozens of times before. He felt that it was all strange and distasteful to him. The chattering voices of the French porters and the whistle of the engines sounded new and quaint as if he had never heard them before. It seemed an eternity before the train started slowly away.

He leaned back and closed his eyes; his head was splitting, and he was cold and hungry.

He must have dozed for a few minutes, for he was roused by a little choking sound of sobbing. He opened his eyes—he was awake at once—he looked across at Esther. She was lying huddled up, with her face turned against the dirty cushions of the carriage, sobbing her heart out.

Micky looked at her in miserable indecision. Then he got up impulsively, and sat down opposite to where Esther was huddled.

He stretched out his hand and took hers.

"Don't cry—don't; I can't bear it," he said hoarsely. He raised her hand to his lips. She had taken off her gloves and her fingers felt like ice. He chafed them gently between his own. She still wore the cheap little ring which Ashton had given her months ago.

She let her hand lie passively in his. Perhaps she was too miserable to remember that it was Micky, and only realised that there was something kind and comforting in his touch. Presently her sobs quieted. She wiped the tears from her face and brushed back her disordered hair.

Micky got up and took down the supper basket he had managed to get at the station. There was a small thermos of hot coffee. He poured some out and made her drink it. If he had expected her to refuse he was agreeably disappointed. She obeyed apathetically; she even ate some sandwiches.

Micky was ravenous himself, but he would not touch a thing till she had finished.

"You'd be much more comfortable if you put your feet up on the seat and tried to sleep," he said presently. "You can have my coat as well as the rug. Your hands are like ice."

He took off his coat as he spoke and laid it over her.

"I'm afraid we've got a long journey yet," he said ruefully. "If you could get some sleep."

She turned her head away and closed her eyes.

She looked very young and appealing in the depressing light of the carriage.

Micky sat looking at her in silence. She cared so little for him that she had even forgotten her anger against him; nothing he could do or say really mattered to her, she was not sufficiently interested in him to even trouble to hate him for long.

He wondered what June was thinking, and Miss Dearling! He wished from the depths of his soul that he had remembered to send those wires. There was his car, too—he had left that in the yard at Charing Cross—what the dickens would become of it?—not that it mattered much, he was too miserable to be seriously concerned about anything.

Some minutes passed, but Esther did not move. Micky spoke her name once softly—

"Esther...." But she did not answer; he leaned over and touched her hand, but she did not stir; in spite of what she had said she was asleep.

Micky gave a sigh of relief. He drew his coat and the rug more closely around her; he was very cold himself, but that did not trouble him; he finished the contents of the supper basket before he went back to his own corner.

The train rumbled on through the night; it dragged into many little stations and stopped jerkily, but Esther did not wake.

Once when she moved and the rug slipped, Micky rose and quietly replaced it. He was very tired himself, but his brain would not allow him to sleep; he felt as if he were living through years during these long hours.

He sat looking at Esther with wistful eyes. Why was it that people never fell in love with the right people? he asked himself vaguely. He could have made her so happy.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then dragged them open again. He must not go to sleep, whatever happened. He sat up stiffly.

Presently he lifted a corner of the blind. The sky looked a little lighter, as if dawn were not far away. He looked at his watch. Nearly two!

A sudden impulse came to him to wake Esther and make her listen now to what he had to say. The time was getting short, and there was so much to tell her and explain.

He rose and bent over her, but she did not move, and he went back again to his corner.

He let the window down a little way, hoping the cold night air would help to keep him awake. The minutes seemed to drag, though in reality only a quarter of an hour had passed when Esther woke with a little smothered cry.

Micky was on his feet in an instant.

"It's all right—there's nothing to be afraid of—you've been asleep."

She rubbed her eyes childishly with her knuckles; she stared at him for a moment unrecognisingly, then, as memory returned, she shrank back into her corner.

Micky picked up the rug and coat that had slithered to the floor; he waited a few moments till he saw that she was quite awake before he spoke, then he said gently—

"I hope you feel better. We shall soon be in now. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you."

"We shall be into Paris very soon," he said again; "and there is a great deal I want to say to you first. Will you listen to me if I try to explain?"

She met his eyes unflinchingly.

"There is only one man who can possibly explain anything to me," she said then, "and he is not you."

Micky lost his temper; he was cold and tired and hungry, and at that moment she seemed the most unreasonable of mortals.

"I shall not allow you to see Ashton, if you mean Ashton," he said roughly. "The man isn't fit for you to think about. He's married, you know that ... Esther, for your own sake——"

She had turned her face away and was looking out into the darkness; she seemed not to be listening.

Micky went on urgently.

"I blame myself. I always meant to tell you before things had gone as far as this. I shall never forgive myself for not having done so. I've behaved like a cad, but my only excuse is that I loved you; I wanted to spare you unnecessary pain——" He was no longer stammering and self-conscious, his voice was firm and steady. "I suppose I was a fool to imagine that I could ever make you care for me; I suppose it was conceit that led me to think I could ever cut out this ... this phantom lover of yours——" He laughed mirthlessly.

"Esther, let me take you back home; it's no use seeing Ashton—it only means humiliation and pain for you."

Her lips moved, but no words came.

"Let me take you home to June," he went on. "She will tell you that what I say is only the truth. She knows him—she...."

She spoke then.

"She always hated him; it isn't likely she would wish me to marry him." She bit her lip. "Oh, it's no use saying any more," she broke out wildly after a moment. "I'm going to see him—I can't bear it if I don't see him—just once! I've got to hear the truth——"

"I've told you the truth," he repeated doggedly. "It's no interest to me to try and prevent you from seeing him. I know I've done for whatever chance I had with you. Oh, for heaven's sake believe that it's only for your sake I want to take you back!"

She shook her head.

In her heart she found it impossible to believe him; she thought of the letters she had received from Raymond, the money—the presents—why even this coat she wore had come from him; she felt that she could laugh at this man opposite to her. A little smile curved her lips; a contemptuous smile it seemed to Micky.

For the first time the injustice of it all seemed to strike him; for him who had done his best she had nothing but dislike and contempt, but for the man who had left her with a brutal letter of farewell, who had thrown her over because she had no money, she had endless faith and trust, and love!

He broke out in his agitation.

"I've tried to spare you—I've done my best, but you won't let me ... I've kept back the truth, but now you'll have to hear it if nothing else will keep you from him. He's never given you a thought since he left London—he imagines that you've forgotten him. It was he you saw at the Comedy Theatre that night when June and I were with you. He didn't even trouble to let you know that he was in London—that's how he cares for you—this man you refuse to believe one word against ..." His eyes flamed as they met hers.

She was staring at him now; her face was white and incredulous.

"If you—if you think I'm going to believe that——" she began, in a high, unnatural voice. She stopped; she seemed to realise all at once that he was speaking the truth. She leaned towards him. Her breath came in broken gasps.

"Those letters!" she said shrilly. "Whose letters? They were from him—they were from him—weren't they from him?" she asked hoarsely.

"No," said Micky doggedly.

Better to hurt her now, he told himself, than to let her go on to worse pain and humiliation.

There was a tragic silence; then she asked again, in a whisper—

"Then who—who wrote them?"

A wave of crimson flooded Micky's white face. He dropped his head in his hands as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.

"I did," he said brokenly.



CHAPTER XXIX

A long moment of silence followed Micky's broken confession. He dared not look at Esther, though she was staring at him, staring hard, with a curious sort of wonderment in her grey eyes. Then all at once she began to laugh, a laugh which held no real mirth, only incredulity.

Micky raised his head sharply.

For a second they stared at one another; then Micky said hoarsely—

"You don't believe me"; and then again, more slowly: "You mean that you—don't believe—me?"

He half rose to his feet.

"Esther, I implore you."

She moved back from him.

"It was clever of you—to think of such an excuse," she said unevenly.

"It's the truth; I swear it if I never speak again. I know now that I must have been out of my mind to attempt such a thing, but it has only seemed impossible since you showed me how little you thought of me. I wrote those letters—every one of them. I——"

In the excitement of the moment neither of them had noticed that the train had reached its destination and was slowly stopping.

A voluble porter had already wrenched open the door and was imploring monsieur to accept his services; it was impossible to say any more to Esther.

Micky followed her out on to the platform; he felt that the last shred of his patience and tenderness had been killed.

She did not believe him—whatever he said she would never believe him; it was useless to waste his breath; he might as well give up and let her go her own way; perhaps a sharp lesson would teach her better and more quickly than all his love had been able to do.

He was dispirited and hungry, and hunger alone makes a man angry. He looked at the girl for whose sake he had raced all these miles of wild-goose chase, and a boorish longing to hurt her, to let her suffer rose in his heart.

Let her go to Ashton and see for herself the sort of man he was.

He spoke with savage impulse.

"I won't bother you with my unwelcome company any longer. You will be able to get breakfast in the restaurant, and you will find that most people here understand English.... Good-bye——"

Esther gave a little gasp—

"You're not going to leave me?"

The hardness of his eyes did not soften.

"You are not trying to tell me that you wish me to stay, surely?" he submitted drily.

She raised her head.

"Certainly not; after all, it's your own fault you came."

He did not answer, perhaps he could not trust himself; he raised his hat and turned away unseeingly, and Esther clutched her suit-case tightly and walked away with her head in the air, trying to look as if she knew every inch of the Gare St. Lazare and had been there thousands of times before.

But her heart was beating up in her throat, and she would have given a great deal, had it been compatible with dignity, to rush after him and beg him to stay.

She wandered out of the station, not knowing where to go, Raymond seemed to have faded into the background; she only thought of him subconsciously; it was the figure of Micky Mellowes that worried her—she could not forget him.

Supposing he had really written those letters? "But he didn't," she told herself in an agony. "I know he didn't."

She took one of the letters from her suit-case and stared at the handwriting—Raymond's writing. The whole thing was too preposterous.

She did not know what she meant to do, or where she meant to go; it no longer seemed that she had come here for any specific purpose.

The early morning greyness and chilliness had faded; the sun had risen and cleared away the mists.

She found herself in some gardens where an elderly man was feeding sparrows; she sat down on a bench and watched him.

It seemed years ago that she went down to Enmore with June—since she sat in the little inn with Micky and heard those two men talking.

The hot blood beat into her cheeks as she remembered something that for the moment she had forgotten—that Raymond Ashton was married!

The man gave the sparrows his last crumbs and went away. The little brown birds came hopping to Esther's feet, looking up at her with bright, eager eyes, as if expecting her to supply a further meal.

The sun faded and went in, and a few drops of rain came pattering down. She rose and began to walk on slowly. The light suit-case seemed to have grown heavy since yesterday.

At the back of her mind was the frightened knowledge that she was alone in Paris; that she had nobody to turn to now that Micky had deserted her; but as yet it was only in the background. Raymond was somewhere, perhaps quite close; but she no longer felt that she wanted to go to him.

Further on she found another bench sheltered under some trees and sat down again; she opened the suit-case and took out a bundle of Micky's letters ... Micky's! No, Raymond's.... Oh, whose letters were they?

She opened the one that had been written from the hotel in Paris. Its fond words seemed to take on a new meaning....

"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...."

The one sentence caught her eye. She wondered that she had never before thought how unlike Raymond this was. Why was it she had not realised before that Raymond could never have written this?

Somewhere in the distance a church clock chimed; Esther found herself mechanically counting the bells—nine, ten, eleven! All those hours since Micky had left her at the station.

She was cold and hungry, but it did not seem to matter; she felt there was a great, unanswered question in her mind which she must settle.

She rose and walked on again; she turned out of the gardens and found herself in a street of shops. People looked at her curiously.

Hardly knowing that she did so, she stopped and looked in at a jeweller's window; there were trays of precious stones. She felt her own ring beneath the glove—she had worn it so long now, she wondered how she would feel when she had to take it off. Of course, she could not go on wearing it if Raymond was really married.

Micky had once gone into a pond on a bitter night to save a kitten from drowning; she wondered what made her remember that.

The man who could save a drowning kitten would never hurt a woman so that she could hardly think or feel; June had claimed for Micky that he was the best man in the world.

"But I don't believe in him—I don't believe anything he says," Esther told herself feverishly; she moved on again away from the trays of flashing diamonds.

Two girls passing her were chattering in French—Esther looked after them vaguely.

This was really Paris—this rather noisy, confusing place; the Paris she had longed to see.

A man passing stared at her, half stopped, went on again, then turned, paused irresolutely, and finally came back.

He walked quickly till he drew abreast with her, and there was a curious eagerness in his face as he stooped a little to look down at hers; then he gave an exclamation of sheer amazement.

"Lallie! Good heavens! What in the world are you doing here?"

It was Raymond Ashton.



CHAPTER XXX

And so the dream had come true after all, and she and Raymond were together in Paris.

As she looked up into his handsome face it seemed to Esther that all the past hours of grief were as if they had never really existed; he was smiling down at her in the same old way; the very tone of his voice awoke forgotten memories in her heart; she felt as if a gnawing pain which had allowed her no rest had suddenly been lulled to sleep.

"I thought it must be you," Raymond was saying nervously. "And yet I could not be sure. Somehow I never thought of you and Paris as being in any way compatible, and yet——" He broke off; it had been on the tip of his tongue to say that she had never looked sweeter or more desirable.

His overwhelming conceit suddenly woke the wish in his heart to know if she still cared, or if she had forgotten him, and a little flush crossed his face and his eyes grew tender as they met the tragedy of hers; he looked hastily round.

"We can't talk here. Will you come to a cafe? There is so much I should like to say to you. When did you come over? What are you doing here?"

They were walking slowly along, the man's head bent ardently towards her.

He had once told Micky that this girl was the only woman he had ever loved, and perhaps it was right—as he accounted love.

He took her to a cafe—one where there would be nobody likely to recognise him; he ordered coffee and biscuits.

"Now we can talk undisturbed," he said; he moved his chair closer to Esther's—he laid his hand on hers.

She did not move or try to evade his touch; she just looked down at his hand for a moment and then up at the handsome face which had for so long meant all the world to her.

"I never thought we should meet again here of all places," he said in his soft voice. "How long ago does it seem to you since we said good-bye?"

She could not answer, but the thought floated through her mind that they never had said good-bye, that he had just walked out of her life and stayed away until this moment, when fate had thrown them together.

"If you knew how often I have thought about you," he said.

"Did you get my letter, Lallie? The one I wrote on New Year's Eve—and the money? I sent you some money."

A swift flush dyed her cheeks; she raised her eyes.

That had been his letter then, after all—Micky had lied to her; she caught her breath on a little gasp.

"Yes," she said faintly. "Yes—yes, I got it—thank you."

"I've often thought since that I might have written you a kinder letter," he said after a moment. "But everything had gone wrong then—the mater cut up rough—and I was up to my eyes in debt. It was the best thing for both of us to put an end to it, don't you think it was? You used to say that you wouldn't mind being poor, but in the end you'd have hated it as much as I should." He paused as if expecting her to speak, but she was plucking at the blue-and-white fringe of the tablecloth with nervous fingers.

What did he mean—that he might have written her a kinder letter—when she always remembered it as one of the dearest she had ever received?

He went on again—

"It hurt me more than you'll ever know." There was a sort of self-satisfaction in his voice. "It took me a long time to forget you, Lallie, and then, just as I was beginning, I saw you at the theatre—in the stalls ... with Mellowes." His brows met above his handsome eyes. "Mellowes wasn't long picking you up," he added jealously.

Her lip quivered, but she did not raise her eyes.

"You saw me, too, didn't you?" he persisted. "I know you did, because Mellowes came round afterwards and cursed me to all eternity." He laughed. "I should have made a point of seeing you the next day if it hadn't been for his confounded interference," he went on. "He told me to get out of London and leave you alone." He bent towards her a little. "What is Mellowes to you?" he asked her deliberately.

She raised her eyes now, and somehow it seemed as if, in the last few moments, the man she had known and loved had changed into a stranger—some one whom she had never seen before, whom she hoped never to see again.

She forced her lips to smile; she felt at that moment she would die rather than let him see how she was suffering, or guess how she had suffered in the past.

"He's been kind to me," she said voicelessly. "That's all."

Raymond made a little, inarticulate sound.

"He's got me to thank for ever getting to know you," he said. "I gave him your address and asked him to take you out a bit if he fancied it.... I asked him to be kind to you."

The hands in her lap twitched convulsively.

"If I'd had one tenth of his beastly money," Raymond said then savagely, "we shouldn't be sitting here now as if we were strangers—as if ... Lallie—do you remember the good time we used to have——"

"I remember everything." He bent closer.

"I never cared for any woman in all my life but you. It's cursed hard luck." He sighed. "You know I'm married?" he asked abruptly.

"Oh yes!" The words came stiffly.

His eyes searched her white face jealously.

"You don't seem to care. I've often wondered if you knew—and if you minded!" He sat staring before him, and there was a little smile in his eyes. "We do things in style now, I can tell you," he said with sudden change of voice. "She's as rich as you please, and she likes to spend her money." Another silence.

"I hope you'll be happy," Esther said faintly.

Afterwards she wondered what made her say it, seeing that she did not care in the very least if he were happy or not; why should she care? This man was a stranger to her.

He laughed ruefully.

"Oh, I suppose we shall," he said. "She's not a bad sort, and she lets me alone...." He roused himself suddenly and bent closer to her. "Lallie—you'll let me see you again. There's no reason why we can't be—friends—just because I'm married——" He tried to take her hand, but now she repulsed him, though very gently.

"You're not going to be a little prude?" he said in a whisper. "I can give you the time of your life if you'll let me. I've plenty of money now——"

"Your wife's money," said Esther with stiff lips.

He looked annoyed.

"If you like to put it that way—but she doesn't mind—she's too fond of me to mind how much I spend ... Lallie——" She hated to hear that name, because once she had loved it.

She closed her eyes for a moment with a little sick shudder.

"Are you faint?" he asked anxiously. "I suppose it is warm in here. Take your coat off! Jove! that's a fine coat——" He ran an appreciative hand down the soft fur sleeve; a sudden suspicion crept into his eyes. "Who gave you that?" he asked sharply. "Not Mellowes——?"

"No—at least...." She could not go on. Micky had given it to her, she knew, but she would have bitten her tongue through rather than have told this man.

It had been Micky all the time—Micky....

She thrust the thought of him from her; she did not want to think of him now. There would be plenty of time later on; plenty of time when she had shaken off the last rag of the past.

"It cost a pretty penny, whoever bought it," he said sulkily. "What else has he given you? If you can take presents from him you can't refuse to let me see you sometimes, and after all—you did love me once.... Esther, do you remember the way you cried that last day?"

"Yes," she said mechanically, "I remember; I remember everything."

"You loved me well enough then," he reminded her moodily. "You didn't behave like an iceberg then, Lallie, and I'm not really changed; I'm the same man I was—I care for you just as much——"

"You're married!" she said.

She felt as if she had so much time mapped out before her during which she must put up with this man's society; as if each moment were another inch torn in the rags of disillusionment which had got to be destroyed thoroughly before she could ever hope to gather up the broken threads of her life again.

He laughed at her reminder.

"I'm not the only married man who sometimes forgets that he is no longer a bachelor," he said detestably.

He laid an arm familiarly along the back of her chair. He touched her chin with his fingers.

She moved back, the hot blood rushing riotously over her face. She was white no longer; she looked like a marble Galatea suddenly brought to life.

Raymond Ashton laughed, well pleased. He was confident that he had not lost his power over her. For the moment his appalling vanity blinded him to the fact that it was not love in her eyes, but scorn.

"What are you thinking, Lallie?" he asked her.

She sat very straight and stiff in her chair.

"I am thinking," she said, "how impossible it seems that I can ever have thought that I cared for you." Her voice was low but very clear, and he heard each word distinctly. "I am thinking that you are the most contemptible thing I have ever met in my life—I am thinking how sorry I am for the woman who is your wife."

She pushed back her chair and rose.

"Would you like to hear any more of my thoughts?" she asked.

Ashton had risen too; there was a look of bewildered amazement in his face; he tried to laugh. Even now he thought she was joking.

"Lallie—" he said hoarsely. He half held his hand to her. "Lallie—" he said again—but the cold contempt of her face struck the appeal from her lips.

He drew himself up with a poor attempt at dignity.

"So virtue is to be the order of the day, is it?" he said sneeringly. "Very well——" His eyes flamed as they rested on her face. "It makes one wonder why you are here—in Paris—alone!" he said insultingly—"If you are alone."

There was a little point of silence. For a moment Esther scanned his handsome face as if she were trying to remember what it was she had ever loved in him—his eyes!—but they were so cruel and insolent—his lips ... she shuddered, realising that in all her life she could never undo the memory of his kisses—then she pulled herself together with a great effort and turned away.

He followed. His amazement had gone now—he was merely furiously angry—his face was crimson—he caught her arm in a grip that hurt.

"My God, you're not going like this," he said furiously. "It's only a few weeks ago that you were crying round my neck and begging me not to throw you over. Oh, that hurts, does it?" he said as she winced. "I dare say you'd like all that wiped out and forgotten. But I've got a few letters to remember you by—a few letters that would hardly make pleasant reading for the next man who is fool enough to waste his time on you—and I promise you I'll send them along if it's Mellowes or any other man——"

She raised triumphant eyes to his face.

"He wouldn't read them," she said passionately. "Send them if you like; but he wouldn't read them——" She was not conscious of the admission in her words—she only knew that the knowledge that Micky was there somewhere in the background gave her the strength to defy Ashton.

She saw the sudden fury that filled his eyes.

"Then—then you admit that it's Mellowes," he stammered. "That it's he who has taken my place—who has cut me out——" His voice changed to a sort of threat.

"I might have know what he meant to do. I might have guessed. Wait till I see him—wait till I get back to London."

Esther smiled—a little smile of security and confidence.

"There is no need to wait," she said quietly. "Mr. Mellowes is here in Paris with me, if you wish to see him."



CHAPTER XXXI

Ashton echoed Esther's words hoarsely.

"Here! With you! in Paris!... Micky——"

A wave of bitterest jealousy surged through him. He fell back a step, struck dumb by the force of his emotions, and Esther fled away from him down the street.

She seemed to have awakened all at once to her true position. She was alone, with only a few shillings in her pocket and in a strange city.

She was tired to death. She felt as if her limbs would give way beneath her. The driver of a fiacre looked at her and drew his horse to the kerb.

Esther nodded; she threw her suit-case on to the seat and clambered in after it.

But where to go? The old blinding fear of her loneliness rushed back. Where could she go?

Then she suddenly remembered the hotel from which Micky had written to her. She would go there. It would be somewhere at least to sleep and rest.

It was only a little drive to the hotel; she wished it had been longer.

A commissionaire came forward, and said something in French. She looked up at him, but his face seemed all indistinct and unreal. She tried to answer, but her own voice sounded as if it were miles away.

They were in the small, rather dreary lounge. Esther passed a hand across her eyes. She must conquer this absurd weakness. She forced herself to remember that she was alone, but she felt as if she had no will-power left.

A door in front of her opened suddenly, and a man came into the lounge.

When he saw Esther he stopped. The hot colour rushed to his face. He seemed to be waiting for some sign from her. For a moment their eyes met; then, hardly knowing what she did, Esther held out her hand.

"Oh, please," she said faintly, "oh, please tell me—what I am to do?"

But for the next few minutes she was past remembering anything, though she never really lost consciousness. She only knew that everything was all right now Micky was here—and the sheer relief the knowledge brought with it for the time threw her into a sort of apathy.

Some one took off her hat and the big fur coat that had grown so heavy; some one had bathed her face and unlaced her shoes, and now Micky stood there looking down at her with eyes that hurt, though they smiled.

"I've told them to bring lunch in here," he went on. "You'll like it better than the public room—and I haven't had mine yet."

Esther looked up at him.

"And can we—can we go back to London to-day?" she asked.

"We can go any time you like," he said.

He felt he had aged years during that morning. No sooner had Esther got out of his sight at the station than he was beside himself with remorse for having allowed her to go; he had spent the whole morning wandering about looking for her. He had been to this hotel a dozen times; he had only just come in again when she followed.

The relief of having her safely in his charge once more was almost more than he could bear. He walked over to the door, then stopped and looked back at her.

"You won't ... you won't run away from me again, will you?" he asked. For the first time there was real emotion in his voice.

Esther had been sitting looking into the fire; she raised her head now.

"Don't go," she said tremulously. "Please don't go. I want to speak to you."

He flushed crimson, he tried to make some excuse.

"Another time.... You're tired. I'll come back presently. You ought to get some rest if we're to go back to-night."

"No," she said. "It must be now."

He shut the door, but he kept as far away from her as possible, standing over by the window that looked into the dreary winter garden.

There was something implacable about his tall figure.

"Oh, won't you come here?" she said.

He obeyed at once. He rested an elbow on the mantelshelf and kept his eyes fixed on the fire.

There as a little silence, then Esther said, almost in a whisper:

"I want to beg your pardon. I hope you will—will try and forgive me."

Micky did not move.

She struggled on:

"I've seen ... Mr. Ashton." Somehow she could not bring herself to speak of him by his Christian name.

"And I know—I know—that I've been—been a fool."

Her voice broke. She gripped the arms of the chair hard to keep herself from breaking down.

Micky forced himself to speak.

"I'm glad you've seen him—as you wished it," he said jerkily. "But as hoping I will forgive you, there's nothing to forgive—it's all the other way on. I behaved like—like a cad—it's for you to forgive me."

He smiled faintly.

"And now we've both said the right thing I'll go and see about that train," he said.

But again she stopped him.

"I don't want you to go—I want to talk to you. I want ... oh, I don't know what I do want!" she finished, with a sob.

"You're tired out," Micky said calmly, though he looked anything but calm, "and I'm going to bully you and insist that you rest. I'll come back presently...."

He went away quickly, as if he were afraid of being kept against his will but outside the door he stood still for a moment with his hand over his eyes before he pulled himself together and went on.

Esther listened to his departing steps with a sinking at her heart.

What had she hoped for? She hardly knew, but she felt as if she had made an overture of friendship that had been kindly but decidedly refused.

Her cheeks burned. It was not what she had expected.

It seemed an eternity till Micky came back again.

"There's a train in half an hour," he told her. "We can get back to town very comfortably. I've wired to June to meet us. She probably came up from Enmore yesterday."

June! Esther had almost forgotten June.

"You ought to be getting ready if we are to catch that train," Micky said. "Would you rather stay till to-morrow? I'm afraid the journey will tire you dreadfully."

She rose hurriedly.

"No, no—oh no, I'd much rather go!"

* * * * *

Micky had reserved a carriage.

"I think I will go in a smoker," he said. He put some magazines and a box of chocolates on the seat; he avoided looking at her. "It's a corridor train so I'll come and see that you are all right occasionally—if I may."

She did not answer; she felt a little chill of disappointment. He had not asked a single question about Raymond, and now he was suggesting that they travel the long journey separately.

He hesitated.

"Will you be all right?" he asked awkwardly.

"Yes, thank you."

He went away, and presently the train started. Esther looked out of the window and watched the city as it was rapidly left behind.

"I never want to see it again," was the thought in her heart. "I wish I never had seen it."

She felt like a naughty child who has run away from home and is being ignominiously brought back.

Last night seemed like some fevered dream; Raymond Ashton some man of whom she had read in a book or seen in a play.

A phantom lover!—he had not even been that, and once she had wished to die because she had got to be separated from him.

Her eyes fell on her hand—she still wore his ring.

With sudden passion she dragged it from her finger; she let the window down with a run and flung the ring far out into the grey evening. It was the end of a dream; the final uprooting of an illusion.



CHAPTER XXXII

Esther slept through the long journey fitfully—she was mentally and physically exhausted. She was only thoroughly aroused by people out in the corridor moving about collecting bags and baggage.

She opened her eyes with a confused feeling—the train was slackening speed, and Micky stood in the doorway.

"We are nearly in," he said.

The train was almost at a standstill.

"Calais! Calais!"

Esther rose to her feet—her limbs were trembling, and her head ached dully.

Micky took her suit-case from the rack.

"You'd better fasten your coat," he said casually. "It will be cold on the boat."

She looked at him half fearfully. Was this the same man who had followed her from Enmore with such passionate haste and eagerness? He was perfectly undisturbed now at all events, he seemed even to avoid looking at her.

When they got on board he found her a chair on the leeside of the boat.

"Are you a good sailor?" he asked.

"I don't know. I've never been any distance until yesterday."

"You'd better stay here; it's preferable to that stuffy cabin."

But he left her alone almost the whole time, though she knew that he walked up and down close to where she sat. She could see the glow of his cigar through the darkness and hear the slow sound of his steps.

She tried to think things over quietly as she sat there, but everything seemed so unreal, and most of all the fact that Micky had once professed to love her.

In the train he left her to herself till they reached London. He was sure she "did not want to be bothered," he said, and he was going to smoke.

Esther felt a little pang of disappointment. It seemed a long time till the train steamed fussily into Charing Cross; and the old weary feeling of loneliness had settled again upon her heart by the time Micky came to the door of the carriage.

"June is sure to be somewhere about," he said laconically. "Will you stay here while I see if I can find her?"

She took a hurried step forward.

"No, I'll come with you."

She felt afraid of June's kindly quizzical eyes; June who knew why she had run away to Paris, and what had been awaiting her there.

She touched Micky's arm—the eyes she raised to his face were troubled.

"When shall I see you again?" she asked falteringly.

He half smiled.

"Why do you want to see me again?" he questioned gravely. "You can have no use for me—after this!"

Esther flushed painfully. Through the crowd she saw June pushing towards them. This was the last moment she would have with Micky, she knew, and in a flash something seemed to tell her what this man had meant to her during the last two terrible days.

"Oh," she said tremblingly, "if you only would let me thank you."

Micky laughed harshly—

"I hate thanks," he said.

June was upon them; she seized Esther and kissed her rapturously.

"You darling! You'll never know how glad I am to see you. I've been here for hours. Aren't you dead tired? Micky, she looks worn out."

"Does she?" said Micky.

He was dead beat himself; he looked round vacantly.

"I wired Driver—I thought he'd be here...."

"Here, sir," said a voice at his elbow, and there was Driver, stolid and impenetrable as ever.

Micky was unfeignedly glad to see the little man; for almost the first time in his life he realised that sometimes dullness and short-sightedness are a blessing in disguise. Apparently to Driver there was nothing odd in this mad rush over to Paris; his expressionless eyes saw the untidiness of his master' toilet without changing.

"I've brought the car, sir," he said.

"Good man; get me a taxi, then. You must take the car down to your rooms," Micky said to June. "No, don't argue; I insist——"

He put the two girls into the car; he did not look at Esther, though he squeezed June's hand when he said good-bye.

"Let me know if you get back all right; I shall see you soon."

He raised his hat, stood aside, and the car started forward.

June looked at Esther with a sort of shyness. It seemed as if years must have passed since they were down at Enmore.

The car had rolled out of the station and into the heart of London before either of them spoke; then Esther said, stiltedly:

"It was kind of you to come."

June flushed.

"It wasn't kind at all," she said bluntly. "You're my friends, or, at least, you were, and, as for Micky—well, I love him."

There was a sort of defiance in her voice. She had seen the tired, strained look in Micky's face, and she was nearer being angry with Esther than she had ever been, but she turned and took her hand.

"Somehow I never thought I should see you again," she said, with real emotion. "I haven't slept a wink since you went away."

"You're much too good to me," Esther said. "Everyone is much too good to me."

"I think Micky is, certainly," June agreed exasperatedly. "The man's a perfect fool to run about like he does after a woman who doesn't care two hoots about him.... There! now I oughtn't to have said that. Esther, if you're crying...."

Esther had covered her face with her hands.

"I'm not crying," she said in a stifled voice. "But I'm so ashamed. I don't know what you must think of me—it's so—so humiliating."

"It's nothing of the kind," June declared. "The only mistake you've made is to put your money on the wrong man, if you'll excuse the expression. Raymond Ashton was always an outsider.... There! I won't say another word. You've come home, and that's all that matters."

It was only when they were safely up in the room with the mauve cushions that she flung her hat down on the sofa and drew a long breath.

"Well, I never thought we should be here together again," she said tragically. "It seemed like the end of everything when I found your note on the pincushion. I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for Micky."

"I don't know what I should have done either," Esther said. She met June's eyes and flushed crimson. "I've been horrid about him, I know," she added bravely. "And now I'm sorry."

June said "Humph." She sat for a moment staring at the floor, then she got up and searched for the inevitable cigarettes.

"You ought to go to bed," she said in her most matter-of-fact tone. "Where did you sleep last night?"

"Nowhere—at least—we were in the train all night. I did sleep a little, but...."

June took her by the shoulders.

"Off you go to bed, and don't argue. I've had a fire put in your room, and Charlie is there with a new bow on. I'll come and tuck you up when you're ready, and...."

But Esther refused to move.

"I couldn't sleep if I went to bed. I want to tell you about—about what's happened...." She paused breathlessly, but June was not going to help her.

"I don't want to hear anything," she said flatly. She looked at Esther and saw the tears in the younger girl's eyes. She put an arm round her, drawing her down to the sofa.

"Tell me all about it, then," she said. "I'm just—just longing to know."

"But there isn't much to tell, except——" Esther held out her left hand. "I'm not engaged any more," she said with a faint attempt to laugh. "He—Mr. Ashton—is married...."

"I know—Micky told me before we went to Enmore. I hope he's married a vixen who'll lead him an awful dance. It would serve her right to let her know the sort of man he is—to let her know the sort of letters he's been writing to you—to show him up properly."

Esther hid her face in the mauve cushions.

"Oh, but he has never written to me," she said chokingly. "I've never had a letter from him since he went away, and that was on New Year's Eve. It's all been a mistake—a sham ... he never cared for me—he never really wanted me...."

June threw away the cigarette and tried to raise Esther.

"What are you talking about? He did write to you—you told me yourself that he wrote beautiful letters—he sent you that money—Esther! what do you mean?"

Esther looked up; for a moment June caught a glimpse of misty, shamed eyes.

"They weren't from him: those letters—the money never came from him," she said in a stifled voice.

"What! My good child, have you gone out of your mind?"

June was a hundred miles from guessing the truth. "If he didn't write them, then who in the world did?" she demanded crisply. "And if he didn't send the money, who in the wide world...."

She caught her breath on a sudden illuminating thought.

"Esther ... not—not—Micky!"

"Yes." It was the smallest whisper, and it was followed by a tragic silence; then June got up and began walking aimlessly about the room; she felt as if she had been robbed of all breath.

Twice she turned and looked at Esther's huddled figure, then she went back, laid a hand on her arm and said in an odd, gentle voice that was strangely unlike her own brisk tones:

"And do you mean to say that you don't just think him the finest man in all the world?"

Esther sat up with sudden passion.

"I didn't think of him at all—it was like having a knife turned in my heart when I knew," she said wildly. "Oh, you can't understand if you've never cared for anybody what it feels like to know that you've been made a fool of. When he told me I felt that I hated him—there didn't seem anything fine or good in what he had done; I only knew that I'd been played with, made fun of...." She stopped, sobbing desperately, but for once June attempted no consolation. She was looking at Micky's portrait on the shelf, and there was a wonderful tenderness in her queer eyes.

"Who told you?" she asked then. "Who told you that it was Micky?"

"He did—he only told me when he knew why I was going to Paris—he told me in the train. It's been from Mr. Mellowes all along—the money I've had every week—my clothes—this coat ... he's been paying for my food, and for me to live here...." She raised her eyes to June's face. "Did you know?" she asked shakily. "He said you didn't, but somehow...."

June rounded on her angrily.

"If Micky said that I didn't, that ought to be good enough," she said curtly. "And of course, I didn't know—if I had, I should have told him that he was a fool to waste his time and money on a girl who thought nothing of him," she added flatly. Her voice changed all at once. "Oh, isn't he just splendid!" she said emotionally. "I don't understand it in the very least, why he has done it, or how he managed it, or anything, but I think it's the finest thing in all the world——" Esther turned away.

"I knew him before we met here—he wanted to tell you, but I asked him not to——" She stopped and dragged on again.

"I met him on New Year's Eve—I was so miserable—there seemed nothing to live for, and he was kind and so ... so ... I told him a little of what was wrong, and I suppose he guessed the rest."

"And when he went to Paris that time it was all for your sake, and it was for your sake he kept coming here—oh!"—June rose to her feet with a gesture of intolerance—"if you don't just adore the ground he walks on," she said, "you ought to, and that's all I've got to say."

Esther made no answer; she was looking into the fire with eyes that as yet saw only the ruins of a dream that had been so beautiful, the rapidly receding shadow of the man whom she had once made a giant figure in her life.

"I never want to care for any one again," she said presently in a hard voice. "You told me once that people were happier if they didn't love, and I think you were right."

"I was an idiot to ever say such a thing," June cried in a rage. "And you're a bigger idiot if you pretend to think I was right. There's nothing better in the whole world than being loved——" Her face flushed like a rose. "If Micky had cared for me even a quarter as well as he does for you I would have married him, and that's the truth," she declared. "It was only because I knew he hadn't anything except friendship to offer me that I knew it wasn't fair...." She tried to cover the seriousness of her words with a laugh. She lit another cigarette. "And now, having got rid of my heroics, let's talk sense," she added more calmly. "But you ought to go to bed. You look worn out. You'll be a wreck in the morning."

"I don't want to go to bed. I have such a lot to tell you. I shall have to leave here, of course; I haven't got any money. I must try and find a post. I thought of asking Eldred's to take me back; there might be a vacancy now...." But her voice sounded weary and hopeless.

June swooped down on her.

"You poor tired baby, come along to bed and don't worry any more. You've got me whatever happens, and if the worst comes to the worst there's always June Mason's wonderful skin food for both of us to live on."

They went upstairs together.

"There's nothing like sunshine to put you on good terms with yourself," she said philosophically. "Whenever I'm in the dumps or feel that I'm looking particularly plain, I put on my best hat and go out in the sunshine, and I assure you I'm a good-looking woman when I come home again."

"You're always better than good-looking," Esther told her.



CHAPTER XXXIII

June tucked Esther up in bed and replenished the fire. She turned out the gas, leaving the room fire-lit.

"June," Esther said timidly. "What did your aunt think? What did she say—when—when——"

"She said we must go back and finish our visit another time—she took a great fancy to you."

"You're saying that to please me."

"I'm not! honest Injun!" June heard the tears in Esther's voice; she bent and kissed her gently.

"Now, not another word! I refuse to answer another question! Pleasant dreams—or better still, no dreams at all." She went away, and shut her door behind her.

Esther lay awake for a long time watching the firelight on the walls and ceiling, and thinking of what had happened.

It seemed impossible that she had even really seen and spoken to Raymond Ashton; impossible that instead of loving him desperately, she could only shudder at the memory of him.

The tears forced their way to her eyes, and scorched her cheeks. But for Micky, where might she not have been now?—and he had refused to even let her thank him. Her heart was filled with a new humility. At best her words would be so poor—like beggars in the palace of his generosity.

But she would see him again soon—she comforted herself with the assurance. In spite of his changed manner and apparent indifference, she was sure she would see him again. Micky—as June had said of him—never failed!

It was her last thought as she fell asleep, that she would surely see him the next day.

But Micky did not come!

Esther rested till lunch time, after which June insisted on a walk.

"The sun's shining, and it's wicked to stay indoors," she declared; she marched Esther about for half an hour.

Esther had been so sure that Micky would come. She glanced up at the clock, and then at Micky's photograph—but to-day he seemed to be looking past her into the room to where June was bustling about, and she gave a little sigh.

The evening dragged away.

"What are you thinking about?" June asked once abruptly. "You look so sad, don't look sad, my dear! there's lots of happy days to come yet—happier days than you've ever had."

Esther was only half listening. It was too late for Micky to come now was the thought in her mind. Supposing he never came again?

She cried herself to sleep that night. When she woke it was late in the morning, and June had had her breakfast and gone out.

She came in while Esther was dressing. She looked very pleased and alert.

"Business, my child!" she said enthusiastically. "Such a duck of an American! and Micky's introduction! Mr. George P. Rochester!—isn't it a lovely name? He's going to establish me firmly in little old New York, as he calls it, and make my fortune. I'm going out to lunch with him at one o'clock, and you're coming too!—Oh, yes you are!" as Esther shook her head. "I've told him all about you already." Esther laughed.

"You must have got on very fast," she said. "And anyway I'm not going to play odd-man-out."

June made a little grimace.

"I telephoned Micky and asked him to come and make a fourth," she admitted.

Esther flushed. She looked up eagerly:

"And—and is he coming?"

June shook her head.

"No, he isn't," she said with overdone indifference. "He said he'd got an engagement already, but between you and me and the doorpost," she added darkly, "I don't believe it! I think he just didn't want to come."

"Oh," said Esther faintly. "I expect he has a good many engagements," she added after a moment.

June said "Humph!" She recalled the curt manner of Micky's refusal, and wondered if there had been a more serious rupture between himself and Esther than she was ever likely to hear about.

"So we shall have to make up our minds to enjoy ourselves without his distinguished company," she said airly. "I dare say we shall be able to manage quite nicely. Esther, aren't you going to wear your fur coat?"

"My fur coat!" said Esther rather unsteadily. "It's not mine."

She was taking from the wardrobe the shabby jacket she had worn the first night she met Micky; it looked more shabby and unsmart than ever, but she was going to wear it whatever happened.

She was smarting with humiliation. She had offered Micky her little olive branch when they parted two days ago at Charing Cross, and this is how he had accepted it!

"If he's trying to pay me out, I suppose it's only what I deserve," she thought miserably, and yet it did not seem like Micky to deliberately try or wish to hurt or humiliate any one.

She did her best to push the shadow aside. She tried to laugh and talk with June as they went off to meet Mr. George P. Rochester.

He was a big, bluff man, with a hand-clasp like the grip of a bear, and a twang that could be cut with a knife.

They lunched at a restaurant which she had never even heard of, though June seemed quite at home. There were several people at other tables, whom June knew, and Esther felt very out of it all, and unhappy.

It was a good thing she had refused to marry Micky, she thought with a sort of anger. She knew none of his friends and nothing of the life to which he had always been accustomed. She did not realise that it was the knowledge of her shabby coat that was affecting her spirits more keenly than anything.

June's clothes were not new, but they had an unmistakable "cut" about them, and Rochester was exceedingly well dressed.

He talked to June a great deal. Once or twice he tried to draw Esther into the conversation, but, seeing that she wished to be let alone, he soon gave up the attempt.

He was certainly a most friendly person—one would have thought that he and June had known one another for years. Before lunch was ended he had invited himself to tea for the following afternoon.

"That's Yankee push if you like!" June said when he had gone. "Give me a Yankee every time to make things go!" She looked at Esther excitedly. "Do you know," she said, "I've a great mind to try and persuade that man to come into partnership with me."

Esther laughed.

"I should say he'd suggest it himself if you give him another day or two," she said drily. She wandered listlessly round the room.

"I shall have to leave here at the end of the week," she said suddenly. "It's impossible to go on living here, and letting you pay my rent and my food bill. I owe you more than I can ever repay already."

"If you talk like that I'll—I'll kill you!" said June in a rage. "You don't understand what friendship means. Micky had tried to teach you, and so have I, and all you do is to throw it back in our faces.... O Esther, don't!..."

Esther had turned away and covered her face with her hands.

"I know you think I'm ungrateful and horrid," she said brokenly. "But how would you like to be in my position? I haven't a shilling of my own in the world—the things I've been wearing since I came here are paid for by ... by ... oh, you know! I hate to look at that fur coat and my new frock. You talk to me about being proud and obstinate; well, I can't help it, you must go on thinking it, that's all; I'd rather die than take anything more from any one. I kept myself before, and I will again...."

"I didn't mean to hurt you—I'm a perfect beast," June declared in remorse. "But it does seem such a shame."

Esther raised a flushed face.

"We can't all have money and be independent," she said hardily. "But I think you might try and understand how I feel about it."

"I only know that I'm dying to help you, and you won't let me," June said grumpily. "Lord! where is my cigarette case? I shall swear or do something worse if I can't smoke."

She went out of the room, and Esther heard her go clattering up the stairs. There were tears in her eyes now, but she brushed them angrily away; after all, what was there to cry for! It was only that she had got to go back to where she had left off that New Year's Eve when she first met Micky; everything was just as it had been then, save that she was the poorer now by the loss of a dream.



CHAPTER XXXIV

June's friendship with Mr. George P. Rochester grew apace.

"Micky's introductions are always a success," she told Esther. "And Micky likes him too—awfully! Mr. Rochester is round at Micky's rooms nearly every night. They're ever such pals!"

"Are they?" said Esther. The mention of Micky's name always seemed to make her heart quiver. She wondered if June knew why he never came to the house now, and what she thought about it all.

In her own mind she was sure that Micky had cast her off, and the knowledge left her with a sense of desolation.

She never spoke of him unless June did so first, and she tried never to think of him. But Micky was a personality not to be lightly dismissed from memory, and he haunted her thoughts waking and sleeping.

"If I could only get some work," she told herself, "it would be better. It's so dreadful having nothing to do."

She had applied to Eldred's unsuccessfully—she had climbed the narrow stairs of the agency a dozen times only to be met with rebuff.

"You refused an excellent post I offered to you," she was told icily. "I am not likely to be able to find you such another."

June coaxed her into helping with the "swindle."

"If you don't I'll have to pay some one else to do it," she declared. "And oh, Esther, don't be so proud!"

So Esther gave in. She filled the little mauve pots with the profound skin food and fastened on lids and labels till her head swam.

Sometimes Mr. George P. Rochester came to help—at least he called it "help"—but he did very little actual work, as he was always too busy looking at June and talking to her.

"Has he suggested the partnership yet?" Esther asked one night.

June flushed rosily.

"Don't be absurd," she answered, and something in her voice woke a little note of fear in Esther's heart.

Was she to lose June too? Was there to be nothing left to her in all the world? Her hands shook as she went on mechanically filling the row of little mauve pots.

"Esther," said June suddenly, "how long is it since you saw Micky?"

There was a little pause, then Esther said constrainedly. "I've never seen him since—since we came back from Paris."

She waited a moment.

"Why?" she asked with an effort.

June kept her eyes bent on her work.

"Because I haven't seen him myself for nearly a week," she said slowly. "And I hear—I hear that he's running round with that Deland girl again."

She did not dare to look up as she spoke, and she went on quickly, "Of course it may only be gossip—but George—Mr. Rochester——" she hurriedly corrected herself, "tells me that Micky took him to their house to dinner last night."

Silence. June filled pots at random, wildly, then Esther spoke.

"I've done eight dozen," she said. "Do you think that is enough to go on with?"

June raised her eyes guiltily, then suddenly she pushed the laden tray from her and ran round to Esther.

"Oh," she said impulsively, "if only—only you could have made yourself care for him."

She put her arms round the younger girl's unresponsive figure.

"I want you to be happy too, so badly," she went on earnestly. "I didn't mean to tell you yet, but I must somehow. George—Mr. Rochester——" she broke off, laughing and crying together.

"The man's a perfect disgrace," she protested, "I told him so, too! I've only known him three weeks, and—and——" she raised tear-drowned eyes to Esther's face. "What can you do when a man that size kisses you?" she demanded.

Esther had to laugh.

"Why, do what you did," she said. "Kiss him in return."

June wiped her eyes and laughed, and shed more tears.

"I never meant to marry any one," she said angrily. "But the dreadful creature seems to want me so desperately badly. I'm really utterly miserable, only——"

"O June!" said Esther.

"So I am! At least!"—June looked up and suddenly laughed. "I'm not," she said. "I'm a wicked liar! but oh, such a gloriously happy, wicked liar!"

* * * * *

"And it's all entirely due to me," Micky said when June rang him up the following morning to tell him the news.

"I introduced you! What do I get out of it all I should like to know?"

His voice was playful, but June took him seriously.

"O Micky! if you could only be as happy as I am," she said eagerly.

Micky laughed.

"If wishes were horses, my dear——" he said sententiously. "But don't worry about me, I'm all right."

"Then, will you come to dinner to-night? No, not at the boarding house! We'll go to the Savoy—just to celebrate! We four!"

"We four!" said Micky sharply.

"Yes—I shall bring Esther, of course."

There was the smallest possible pause, then Micky said:

"I'm sorry, but I've another engagement. I promised the Delands to go with them to the Hoopers' dance."

June said "Hang the Delands," and rang off in a huff.

Micky hung up the receiver and turned away. He was sorry to disappoint June, and yet he had no smallest intention of meeting Esther. If she had wanted him she would have sent a note or a message—but she did not want him! More than once she had said that she hated him—it was time to learn that she meant what she said. Micky's pride had got the upper hand at last, and he would rather have died now than make the smallest overture to the girl at whose feet he had once been willing to grovel.

Driver came to the door:

"A parcel, sir. Shall I bring it in?"

Micky answered absently:

"All right."

Driver went out of the room. After a moment he came back with a square box which he set down on the table.

"Shall I open it, sir?" he asked, as Micky did not speak.

Micky started.

"Yes; oh, yes—open it. What the dickens is it? I haven't ordered anything."

Driver said that he did not know—that it had been left by a messenger. He untied the knotted string with neat precision, and rolled it into a ball before he removed the paper.

Micky walked up to the table and lifted the lid with faint curiosity.

"A fur coat," he said blankly. "A fur——" He stopped. For a moment he stood staring down into the box, then he let the lid fall over it again.

"All right—you can go," he said.

Driver walked to the door stoically, and Micky went back to the fire.

So she would not even keep the fur coat! She cared so little for him that she must needs send back his paltry gifts. What a fool he was to care—what a fool!

Driver, coming back for a moment, stopped petrified in the doorway. Micky was standing by the mantelpiece with his face buried in his arms.



CHAPTER XXXV

It was late that night when Micky turned up at the Delands'. He had taken extravagant pains with his toilet, lingering over it as long as possible. Ever since the arrival of that parcel from Esther, he had been trying to make up his mind to take the irrevocable step, and ask Marie Deland to be his wife. He was miserably sure that she would accept him, miserably sure that he was already forgiven for the past.

He kept on persuading himself that it was the one and only thing left to him to do. He tried to believe that once the affair was settled, he would find some sort of happiness. After all, what did it matter whom he married if it could not be Esther?

He looked pale but determined when he walked into the Delands' drawing-room and found Marie there alone. She turned to greet him with a little eager movement that was somehow comforting.

Here, at any rate, was some one who really cared for him and was glad to see him. He took the hand she held out and, bending, kissed it.

She caught her breath on a little sound that was almost a sob, but she checked it instantly and tried to laugh.

"This is almost like old times," she said.

"Quite like old times," Micky answered recklessly. "We've just turned the pages back again and gone on where we left off, that's all."

He looked at her and tried to forget everything else. She was pretty and dainty enough to satisfy the most exciting man, and she loved him! To a man who is disappointed and unhappy there is great consolation in the knowledge that to one person at least he counts before anything else in the world.

She looked up at him, and impulsively he took a step towards her; another moment and Micky would have sealed his fate, had not Mrs. Deland pushed open the door and walked into the room.

It had not been any effort for her to forgive Micky for his cavalier treatment of her daughter. For the last week she had been busy telling every one that Marie and Micky had made up their quarrel—"entirely Marie's fault it was, you know," and so on.

"You are going to give me half your dances at least," Micky said, when they reached the Hoopers'. He took the card from Marie's hand and filled in his own initials recklessly against the numbers.

She laughed tremulously; she was too happy to think of anything but the present; she had got Micky again, and that was all she cared about.

"Good-evening!" said a voice at her side, and, turning, she found Raymond Ashton at her elbow.

Marie did not care particularly for Ashton. She greeted him rather coldly.

"So you're back in town," she said. "And your wife?"

"Not here to-night," he answered. "She has a bad cold, so I persuaded her to stay at home. May I have a dance?"

She gave him her card reluctantly. She would have liked to have refused, but she thought Micky would be annoyed; she did not know that he and this man were friends no longer.

She saw him glance at Micky's many initials on her card, saw the half ironical smile he gave as he looked at her.

"Mellowes is back, then?" he said.

"Yes—he came with us to-night."

"Really! I thought——" he paused eloquently.

Marie flushed, she knew quite well what he meant; that he must have known how Micky had once deserted her.

"I understood that Mellowes was in Paris."

Ashton went on calmly.

"At least I was told so by an ... acquaintance of mine—who was staying there with him."

Marie's eyes dilated.

"Father and I crossed by the same boat as he did," she said with an effort. "He was alone then——"

Ashton laughed detestably. "Ah, but not afterwards," he said—then checked himself. "But I forgot. I must not tell tales out of school, only as every one seems to have learned of his penchant for the little lady from Eldred's"—he laughed lightly.

Marie stood staring down the long ballroom. The colour slowly faded from her cheeks, leaving her as white as her frock. She looked at Ashton, intent on a crease in his glove, and she broke out stammering:

"How dare you say such a thing! I don't believe you—in Paris—Micky——"

He raised his brows with assumed surprise.

"I'm sorry—perhaps I should not have spoken—but I thought every one knew——"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it may be a mistake, but I happen to know the lady in question slightly—through Mellowes—and it was she who told me.... I am sorry if my carelessness has pained you—excuse me, I am engaged for this dance."

He bowed and left her standing there, white and dazed.

"I don't believe it! I don't," she told herself despairingly, and yet in her heart something told her that, for once at least, Ashton had spoken the truth.

"Our dance, I think," said Micky beside her.

She laid her hand on his arm mechanically; they went the round of the room once, then Micky, glancing down, saw how white she was and how her head drooped towards his shoulder.

He tightened his arm a little—he swept her skilfully out of the crowd and into a small anteroom; he put her into a chair and bent over her in concern.

"You are not well—what can I do? Can I get you anything?"

For a moment she did not speak, then all at once she rose to her feet; she clutched Micky by both arms; he could feel how her hands shook; there was heartbroken tragedy in her brown eyes as she looked into his face. For once she had forgotten her pride and the indifference into which she had been drilled for twenty years; she was no longer Marie Deland, a sought-after and courted beauty; she was just an unhappy, jealous woman.

"It isn't true, Micky, is it?" she entreated him; her voice was only a broken whisper. "Tell me—oh, please, please, tell me. You don't care for her, do you?—it isn't true, is it?"