She forgot that he did not know of what she was speaking; it seemed as if everybody in the world must know of this tragedy that had desolated her life.

"I can't bear it any longer—it's no use.... I've borne all I can.... O Micky ... Micky."

He forced her hands from his arms; he put her back into the chair and sat beside her; he hated to see the white despair of her face.

"You're ill—upset.... It's all right—everything is all right. You're not to worry any more.... Everything is all right."

At that moment he would have given his soul could he have truthfully said that he wanted her for his wife. He cursed himself for a cur and a coward, but somehow he could not force the words to his lips.

She lay back against the cushions, hiding her face.

There was a tragic moment of silence. Out in the ballroom a noisy one-step was in boisterous progress; there was a great deal of laughter and chattering; the little anteroom seemed as if it must be in another world.

Micky got up. He walked across the room and shut the door. There was a hard look about his mouth. For an instant he stood staring down at the floor irresolutely, then he came back to Marie. He bent over her, but he did not touch her.

He spoke her name gently.

"Marie."

She did not raise her head.

"I want to speak to you," he said huskily.

She looked up then. Her face was flashed and quivering, and the brown eyes that for a moment met his own were full of an unutterable grief and shame.

"Oh," she said in a broken whisper. "If you'd just go away—and leave me to myself."

Micky did not answer. The impossibility of ever going back now struck him to the soul. This was the end, the very end—he had burned his boats and bidden good-bye to the woman he loved for ever.

Then all his natural chivalry rose in his heart. Hitherto it had been only of himself that he had thought, but now ... his eyes softened as they rested on the girl's bowed head; he stooped and took her hand, held it fast in his steady grip.

"Will you marry me?" he said very gently.

And, oh, the long time before she answered! It seemed to Micky that he lived through years as he stood there with the rattling tune of the one-step in his ears and Marie's tragic figure before his eyes. Was she never going to speak?

Then she sat up very stiff and straight—there were tears scorching her flushed cheeks, and her eyes seemed to burn.

"Will I—will I—marry you?" she echoed, as if not understanding.

Her voice rose a little.

"Then it isn't true ... it can't be true—what he said?"

"What did he say? Who are you talking about? What do you mean?"

She began to sob; quiet, tearless sobs that seemed to bring no relief with them.

"Raymond Ashton—he told me—here! just now—that you...." She stopped, catching her breath at the change in Micky's face; it no longer looked tender—his eyes were fierce.

"Ashton! What has he said?" His voice was roughly insistent.

"He told me that you—you were in Paris—a week or two ago—with a girl from Eldred's."

"It's a lie!" The words escaped Micky before he could check them; his first thought was to defend Esther. "It's an infernal lie!" he said again violently.

It turned him cold to think of all that the brute must have implied.

The tears were frozen on Marie's cheeks—her hands were clasped together in her lap.

When at last she found her voice it was strained and cracked.

"... that she told him you were there with her...." Her brown eyes searched his face as if they were trying to read his very soul. "If it's a lie," she said shrilly, "it's she who is lying—she told Raymond Ashton that she was there with you."

"She told him...."

For a moment Micky stood like a man turned to stone. Was this the truth?—that Esther had told Ashton....

He looked again at Marie.

"When did Ashton tell you this?"

"To-night—not a moment ago—he is here."

"Here!" Then to how many more people had he told the same distorted story?

The blood beat into Micky's face; it seemed to hammer maddeningly against his temples. Nothing counted but the fact that Esther's name was being bandied about on the lips of the creature. To stop him—to stop his lying tongue was the one thought in Micky's mind; he saw the whole world red as he tore open the door of the silent room and strode out into the corridor.

The noisy ragtime had ceased, but a storm of deafening applause and cries of "Encore!" filled the ballroom.

An elderly man cannoned into Micky, and stopped short with a laughing apology.

"Hullo, Mellowes—not dancing—what the deuce is the matter?" he asked with sudden change of voice.

Micky passed a shaking hand across his mouth—

"Nothing ... where's Ashton—have you seen Ashton?"

"I've just left him; he isn't dancing either. Can't think what's happened to you youngsters to-day. When I was your age...." He broke off, realising that Micky was not listening. "Ashton's in the smoking-room," he said uneasily.

Micky went on; his hands were clenched, his teeth set.

The smoking-room door was half ajar; he could see that there were several men there. There was a clink of glasses and the sound of voices talking in a rather subdued way.

Micky paused. He knew that if Ashton were there it would mean a scene, and a scene in any one else's house.... The thought snapped at the sound of his own name.

"Mellowes! Well, you do surprise me." There was a chuckle. "Always thought he was one of the good boys.... It just shows that you never know a man till you find him out. Rather an error of judgment to choose Paris, eh? Who did you say she was?"

"A girl from Eldred's—pretty little thing. I knew her before he did. As a matter of fact, it was only when I cooled off...."

That was Ashton's voice; Micky could not see him, but he could picture vividly the eloquent shrug, the meaning smile with which he finished his incomplete sentence.

The hot blood died down, leaving him cool and alert. He pushed the door wide and walked into the room.

The group of men by the fireplace scattered; some one coughed deprecatingly; some one else seized upon a siphon and began filling an already full glass recklessly.

Nobody spoke.

Micky kicked the door to behind him, shutting it with a slam.

His eyes went straight to Ashton—a pale Ashton, trying to smile unconcernedly and brazen the situation out.

"I'll give you two minutes in which to apologise," Micky said in a voice of steel. "Two minutes in which to retract the damned lies you've just been saying in this room—or—or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

In the silence following one could have heard a pin drop. Every one looked at Ashton. Micky took out his watch.

It seemed an eternity before Ashton spoke.

"If you've been listening——" he began blustering.

He moistened his dry lips.

"What I said is the truth," he broke out spluttering. "You were in Paris with...." But the name was never spoken—Micky's clenched fist shot out and struck him right in the mouth.

In a moment the room was in an uproar; half a dozen men rushed at Micky and pinned his arms.

"Mellowes—for God's sake—if Hooper comes in...."

Ashton had staggered back against the wall; his mouth was cut and bleeding; he was swearing horribly.

Micky was crimson in the face; the veins stood out like cords on his forehead; he was straining every nerve to free himself from his captors.

"Apologise!" he gasped. "Apologise, you dammed cad!"

Ashton laughed savagely.

"Apologise! What for? It's the truth, and you know it. Apologise! I'll repeat it.... I say that you were in Paris three weeks ago with Esther Shepstone, one of the girls from Eldred's...."

Micky suddenly stopped struggling, but his breath came in deep gasps as he spoke. He looked round at the faces of the other men.

"I know most of you—here," he said in a laboured voice. "And most of you know me—and you know that I'm not a damned liar like Ashton; and I know that you'll believe me—believe me—when I tell you that the lady who was with me in—in Paris—three weeks ago—is my wife ... we've been married some time—and it is solely by her wish that it has been kept a secret."

If Micky had dropped a bomb in the room it could hardly have created more consternation. The incredulity on the faces of the men around him would have been amusing to an onlooker, but to Micky the whole thing was tragedy.

He had brought Esther to this with his blundering quixotism; he was nearly beside himself with remorse.

If he had been free he would have half killed Ashton. His hands ached to get at him; to take him by his lying throat and choke the breath from his body.

He looked at the men around him with passionate eyes.

"I've never given any of you cause to doubt my word yet," he said hoarsely. "And I'm sure you'll agree with me that this man should be made to retract what he said and apologise."

"Certainly—he ought to apologise. It's disgraceful—infernally disgraceful," said a man who had been listening to Ashton's story eagerly enough a moment ago.

"What do you say, gentlemen?"

There was a chorus of assent. The men who had been holding Micky's arms let him go.

Ashton backed a step away.

His face was livid, his eyes furious, but he knew that there was no other course open to him; nobody in the room had any sympathy with him now.

"I apologise," he said savagely. "I didn't know that—the—lady—Mellowes had married—the lady."

His tone added that even now he did not believe it; he edged away to the door and disappeared.

Micky dropped into a chair; he looked thoroughly done up. Some one pushed a glass of whisky across to him. There was an uncomfortable silence. Perhaps they were all feeling guilty; perhaps they all remembered with what relish they had listened to this spicy bit of scandal.

"Never could stand Ashton," some one said presently, in gruff abasement. "Worm—the man is!—perfect outsider!"

There were several grunts of assent; the sympathy was decidedly with Micky.

After a moment he rose to his feet.

"I suppose an apology is due from me too," he said; he spoke with difficulty. "But I think any of you—in the same circumstances——"

He waited a moment.

"Quite right—certainly.... Should have done the same myself."

Micky smiled faintly.

"And I am sure you won't let this go any further—for—for my wife's sake," he added.

They pressed round him, shaking him by the hand and reassuring him. Micky took it for what it was worth. He knew that those of them who were married men would go straight home and tell their wives of the scene at Hoopers', and he knew how speedily the story would spread.

He got away as soon as he could and left the house.

He never gave Marie another thought, till he found himself out in the street and walking away through the fresh spring night.

He took off his hat and let the air blow on his hot forehead; his hand still trembled with excitement.

He tried to think, but his thoughts would not come clearly. When he got back to his rooms he asked Driver for a stiff brandy. The man looked at his master diffidently, and asked if anything were the matter.

Micky laughed.

"Why? Do I look as if there is?" He glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was very white.

"No, there's nothing the matter. I'm tired, that's all."

Driver turned to the door, but Micky called him back.

"You've been with me a good many years, Driver," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"And you've been a faithful servant."

"Thank you, sir."

The man's stolidness did not change a fraction.

Micky took a gulp at the brandy.

"If you were to hear that I'm married, you wouldn't be surprised, would you?" he asked with a rush.

Driver stood immovable.

"Not in the least, sir."

"You would even say that you knew that I've been married some weeks, wouldn't you?"

"I should, sir."

"Good—you may go."

"Thank you, sir, and good-night."

"Good-night," said Micky.

And now, what was to be done now?

When he left this room three hours ago it had been with the determination to put the past behind him for ever, and what had he done? Only walked more deeply into his quixotism and seriously compromised the woman he loved.

He had said that she was his wife. It gave him a little thrill to remember that a dozen of his acquaintances had heard him say it, and were probably even now spreading the story of his marriage far and wide.

He paced up and down the room. He had failed all round; even love and desperate desire had not been able to help him.

He thought suddenly of June; June who, with all her bluntness, had a great heart and a deep understanding.

She would not want explanations; she would know why he had done it, and sympathise.

But June was obviously not the one concerned. It was not to June that he must confess.

The clock in his room struck twelve; too late to do anything to-night. The memory of Marie returned—Marie as she had looked when he found her in the drawing-room that night; as she had looked when he had left her in the little anteroom at the Hoopers' and gone out with murder in his heart to find Ashton.

He stopped dead in his pacing.

"Oh, you cad—you cad!" he said with a groan.

Life was an intolerable, purposeless thing. He sat down at his desk and leaned his head in his hands. His whole life seemed to spell failure. With sudden impulse he seized a pen and began to write.

For the first few moments he hardly knew what he wrote. It was only when he reached the end of the first page that he seemed to realise with a start what he had done. He looked back at the written lines with something of a shock. There was no beginning to the letter, no date or address; it simply started off as if the pen had been guided by some influence outside himself, some desperate need.

"I don't know what you will think when you get this letter. I am writing it because to-night I think I am half mad. I love you so much; there seems nothing in the whole world that counts any more now that I am beginning to understand that I can never have you. Esther, I ask you on my knees to listen to what I have to say. I have tried to keep away from you, to forget you; I've tried to put you out of my heart and persuade myself that I do not care—but it's no use. I love you; I know you care something for me, but I shall love you always. To-night I have done an unpardonable thing for your sake. I explain things so badly. I can only hope that you will understand and try to make some excuse for me. Some one knows we were together in Paris—I need not tell you who. To-night, at a house where I was, he had told several people that you and I had been to Paris together...."

Micky had gone on writing rapidly—he seemed to have lost himself in a sea of eloquence; his heart was pleading with the woman he loved through the poor medium of a sheet of unaddressed paper.

"It nearly drove me mad to hear you spoken of by him. There was a scene, and I knocked him down ... you will hate me for this, but I would have killed him if they had let me. I told them afterwards that you were my wife—try and understand how I have suffered all these weeks—I told them that we had been married some time, and that it had been kept secret by your own wish. It's only now, when I am more alone and can think clearly, that I see what I have done. You don't care for me, and I have compromised you even more than that man did by his lying insinuations. Tell me what I am to do—anything, anything in the world. My whole life is yours to do with as you will. Be my wife, dear, be my wife...."

For a moment the pen faltered, but Micky went on again with an effort.

"I will stay in London twenty-four hours for your answer, and then, if I don't hear...."

The pen faltered again, and this time finally stopped.



CHAPTER XXXVI

"The question is," said June critically, looking out of the window to the street where a fine drizzle of rain was falling, "does one, or does one not, wear one's best hat to go out and meet the one and only man one has ever loved?" She turned round and looked at Esther with a little nod. "That's grammar, though you may not think it, my dear," she said.

Esther laughed.

"I should say one does wear one's best hat," she said decidedly. "Especially seeing what a very charming hat it is."

She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at June admiringly. "How long is it since you saw the great and only?" she asked.

June did some rapid counting on her white fingers.

"Nineteen hours exactly," she said. "But it seems like ninety! I nearly died with joy when his note came at breakfast time——" She looked at Esther wistfully. "You don't know how lovely it is to have some one of your very own," she said with unwonted sentimentality.

Esther averted her eyes.

"I envy you," she said quietly. "But you'll be late if you stand rhapsodising here—be off!"

June bent and kissed her.

"I shan't be long—he's only asked me for lunch...."

Esther smiled.

"I have known lunches that lasted till tea-time," she said. "When there has been a great deal to talk about."

June went downstairs singing. During the last few days she had, as she would have expressed it, begun to discover herself all over again. Certainly the world had utterly changed, and was more like a fairy city than a place where it rained a great deal and where buses and taxicabs splashed pedestrians with mud.

Lydia met her at the foot of the stairs; she smiled at sight of the new hat.

"I was just coming up, Miss June," she said. "There's a letter for Miss Shepstone."

June held out her hand.

"I'll take it, and save you the trouble——" She became conscious all at once of the girl's admiring eyes, and blushed.

"Do you like my hat, Lydia?" She turned round for inspection.

Lydia admired enthusiastically, as she admired everything of June's, and forgetful of everything but the moment, June thrust the letter for Esther into her coat pocket and went out blissfully into the rain to meet George Rochester.

George was ardent; he went into rhapsodies over the hat; he forgot to eat his most excellent lunch, and hardly took his eyes off June.

"It's all so much waste of time this being engaged," he said with pretended annoyance. "Why don't we do the trick and get married? What are we waiting for? I'll take you to the States for a wedding trip."

June laughed, and protested blushingly that it was much too soon.

"I haven't thought about it," she declared, not quite truthfully. "There's tons of things to see to first. What about my business and Esther?"

"Leave the one to look after the other," he said promptly.

She shook her head.

"I couldn't—I should hate to leave Esther alone; if only she could be married too?"

"Well—find her a husband. What about Mellowes?" he suggested jokingly.

June's face sobered.

"Oh—Micky!" she said. She was not sure if she was justified in telling Rochester that Micky had once cared for Esther. "I thought he was practically engaged to Marie Deland," she said doubtfully.

Rochester gave an exclamation.

"That reminds me," he said. "There seems to have been a bit of a row at the Hoopers' dance last night.... I wasn't there—but I heard some fellows at the club talking it over just now. Do you know a man named Ashton?"

June sniffed inelegantly.

"Do I not!"

"Well, if you don't like him, you'll be pleased to hear that Micky knocked him into the middle of next week," Rochester said calmly.

June's eyes gleamed.

"Never! Well, I'm delighted to hear it! What was it about?"

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, they were gossiping about some woman, as far as I could make out—a woman Micky had been rather friendly with, from what I gathered—they didn't mention her name, but——" he hesitated. "They spoke of her as a girl from ... I've forgotten the name, but I think it was a petticoat shop——"

"Eldred's?" said June sharply.

"Yes, that was it! What do you know about it?"

"Nothing—go on! What were they saying?"

"That she'd been to Paris with Mellowes, and Mellowes overheard it, and there was a bit of a fight, and Mellowes said that the girl was his wife...."

June gasped.

"What!"

Rochester looked rather uncomfortable.

"It's only club talk," he said deprecatingly. "Dare say it's all lies."

June pushed back her chair; her brain was in a whirl; she stared at Rochester with dazed eyes.

"Of course you're mad, quite mad," she said calmly.

"Or I am! which is it?... My dear man, the girl Micky went to Paris with was Esther! my Esther Shepstone! and here you are trying to tell me that she and Micky are married!" She burst into hysterical laughter.

"I'm not trying to tell you," he protested injuredly. "It's only what I heard; and any way, if Mellowes went to Paris with Miss Shepstone——"

He broke off before the anger in June's eyes.

"If you speak about Esther in that tone of voice again, I shall hate you for ever," she said furiously. "If you must know the truth, I'll tell it to you, and another time just don't judge people till you've heard both sides of the question," and she promptly proceeded to tell him the whole story of her meeting with Esther, and all that had happened since.

Rochester listened quietly, but when she had finished, he said—

"Micky ought to have finished that skunk last night. If he cares for Miss Shepstone...."

"Oh but I don't think he does now," June struck in sadly. "He hasn't been near her since they came back from Paris, and every one says that Marie Deland——" she broke off.

"And when Miss Shepstone gets to hear what happened last night?" Rochester asked drily.

"Oh, but she won't—she doesn't know anybody who would tell her except you or me," June said positively. "And of course she must never know. She never liked Micky, though why!..." She shrugged her shoulders. "Have you seen him to-day?" she asked.

"No—I'm going to this evening."

"But you won't let him know what I've told you? promise me!"

"Is it likely that I should? Men don't gossip."

"Oh, don't they?" June answered tartly. "I wouldn't trust one of them, not even you," she added with a melting smile.

In spite of her promise to Esther, it was past tea-time when she got back home; she threw her hat and coat down anywhere and poked up the fire.

"Haven't you had tea? What have you been doing all day?" she demanded crisply. "You haven't had tea!—Good gracious, I'll make some at once; I had some with George, but I'm quite ready for some more. My word! what a difference a man can make in one's life," she said, suddenly grave. "And to think that I ever talked piffle about not wanting to get married."

She bustled round the room singing blithely; she was brimful of happiness. "You needn't be surprised to hear that I'm going to be married quite soon," she said with elaborate carelessness. "Lord! won't people have forty fits? Except for Micky, my crowd don't know I'm engaged yet. I'm going to take George home to see them on Sunday. I've discovered that he's fourth cousin, about ninety times removed, to a baronet, so, perhaps, that will put them all in a good temper with him. My people do love titles! Give them a lord, or something, and it doesn't matter what else he is, or isn't.... You're not listening, Esther."

"I am. I heard every word you said."

Esther was sitting by the fire with Charlie curled up in her lap; her face looked very sad and thoughtful. So she was to lose June quite soon!—her lips trembled; what was there left for her in all the world? It almost seemed as if time had stood still for a moment, and then suddenly rushed her back again with breathless speed, to leave her bereft of hope and happiness, as she had been before she met Micky.

Charlie had been her only friend then. Was he all that was to remain to her now?

June watched her across the room.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly; but Esther only shook her head.

* * * * *

For two days Micky Mellowes never left his rooms, and hardly ate a thing, and for once in his life Driver permitted a spark of anxiety to creep into his dull eyes. He was sure that his master was ill; he tried tempting dishes and alluring cocktails, but Micky refused them all.

"My good man, I'm not an invalid," he protested irritably.

He hated it, because he knew his agitation was apparent; he tried to settle to read, but whenever a bell rang through the house he started up with racing pulses.

She must have got his letter, he knew. If there was any hope for him at all she would write at once or send for him. His nerves began to wear to rags.

Sometimes his hopes soared to the skies, to drop to zero again. Once in a fit of despondency he told Driver to pack his bag, as they would be leaving early in the morning.

"Yes, sir—where shall we be going, sir?" Driver asked stoically.

Micky swore.

"You do ask such damned silly questions," he complained irritably.

An hour later, when he found Driver packing, he called him a fool, and told him to unpack at once.

And so the days dragged away.

"Any more posts to-night?" Micky asked jerkily, on the second day.

Driver eyed the clock.

"There should be one at nine, sir."

But nine came, and half-past, and no post.

"Is it too late for the post now, Driver?" Micky asked feverishly, when it was nearly ten.

"The post went by, sir," was the answer. "I was down at the door and saw the postman pass."

Micky went back to his chair. It was all he could expect, he told himself—there had been no answer to his letter: there never would be an answer now.

When Driver came into the room again, Micky said without looking up—

"Pack that bag again, there's a good fellow, will you?"

"Yes, sir," said Driver imperturbably.

He hesitated, then asked—

"And—er—where did you say we should be going, sir?"

"I didn't say," said Micky. "And I don't care—on the Continent—anywhere you like—look up some hotels...."

One place was as good as another, he argued, as he sat and watched Driver pack. Wherever he went he was going to be infernally miserable, so what did it matter?

When Driver stoically inquired how long he expected to be away, Micky answered violently that he was never coming back if he could help it; he said he hated London—he said he was sick to death of his flat and wanted a change.

"I shan't come back till the autumn anyway," he declared recklessly.

"Very good, sir," was the stolid reply. Driver knew his master; he could remember another occasion when Micky had left London in a rage never to return, and ten days had seen him back again.

Certainly this was rather a different case from that other; this time there was a woman behind it. Driver knew this perfectly well, though beyond the posting of letters and the buying of the fur coat he had had no firsthand evidence.

But he kept his thoughts to himself and packed shirts and socks and coats by the score, as if to keep up the belief that they were really going for months, instead of the day which were the limit he prescribed in his own mind.

When Rochester called later on in the evening, Micky was almost rude to him. The American looked so unfeignedly happy that it got on Micky's nerves; but George P. Rochester was difficult to snub; he looked on at the packing with childlike amazement.

"It's a sudden idea of yours, this flitting!" he submitted mildly. Micky did not answer.

"Hope you'll be back in time for my wedding, Sonnie," Rochester said again.

Micky flushed crimson; there was something rather pathetic about him at that moment.

"Oh, I'll be back all right," he said shortly.

Rochester laughed.

"You won't have to stay away long then," he said significantly.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Esther woke from a troubled sleep that night, to find June standing beside her. Pale moonlight shone into the room from half-drawn blinds, filling it with an eerie light, as Esther started up trembling and frightened.

"What is it? is anything the matter? Oh, I thought you were a ghost!" She clutched at June with both hands. "Oh, is anything the matter?" she asked again.

June laughed nervously; she found matches and lit a candle, then she came back to Esther and thrust something into her hands.

"You'll never forgive me," she said. "But I've had it in my coat pocket for two days...." She pushed her dark hair back from her forehead tragically. "Lydia gave it to me for you the day I went out in my best hat to meet George, and I was such a selfish, conceited pig that he put everything else out of my head, and I forgot all about it till just now, when I was lying awake thinking ... and then ... oh, Esther, it's from Micky!"

Esther looked down at the crumpled envelope—

"From—Micky?..." she said. She was only half awake; she made a very fair picture there with her long hair tumbling about her shoulders, and her face a little flushed and startled.

June turned to the door.

"I'll go away—you don't want me.... I'll go——" but Esther caught her hand.

"No—no.... Wait! please wait!"

"Very well—but I'm half frozen...." June looked plaintively at Esther, but Esther had forgotten her, and she dragged the quilt from the bed, and wrapped it round her small figure till she looked like a mummy.

There was a long silence, then Esther raised her eyes to June's anxious face.

Her own was quite colourless, and her grey eyes looked dazed.

"Will you—will you—read it?" she said faintly. "Please—I want you to—I ... somehow I feel as if I'm dreaming."

But June at any rate was wide awake. It only took her two minutes to read Micky's passionate appeal; the next she was laughing and crying together, and hugging Esther boisterously.

"Oh, isn't he the most wonderful man? Don't you love him? Don't you just adore him? Oh, if you're going to break his heart after all this, I'll never forgive you!... Why, my George isn't in it with Micky, poor darling!"—she shook Esther in her excitement—"What are you made of, that you can't see what a king he is? I don't believe there's any blood in your veins at all," she declared indignantly. "You haven't got a heart.... Oh, Esther darling! I didn't mean it—I—oh, I'm such an idiot!..."

And the two girls clasped each other and cried together.

"And now if this ridiculous midnight scene is ended," June said presently, sniffing her tears away, "let's talk sense. I'll go and see Micky in the morning and explain everything. He knows what I am—he won't be at all surprised—oh, I'm so glad—so more than glad.... Oh, Esther, why do you hide your face?"

"Because I'm so ashamed," Esther said in a stifled voice. "I'm not worth loving—I've ... oh, you don't know how I've treated him!"

June was silent for a minute, then she said gently—

"But Micky will forget all that—Micky never remembered a mean thing against anybody in his life." She forced Esther to look at her. "Tell me one thing, and then I'll go and leave you in peace," she coaxed. "Do you—do you ... you know?"

But in this instance, at least, a verbal answer was not necessary.

June kissed her rapturously.

"Oh, you darling," she said. She blew out the candle, and sped down to her own room again like a ghost in the moonlight.

* * * * *

"Was there anything else you was wanting, sir?" Driver inquired stolidly. He stood on the platform looking in at the first-class compartment where Micky sat alone in durance vile, waiting for the train to start.

He frowned, and pulled his soft hat further down over his eyes as he answered—

"No, nothing.... I'll see you at Dover."

There were many people on the platform; in the next carriage a pretty girl was seeing a man off—looking up at him as he stood on the footboard with eyes that told their story eloquently.

Micky looked at her enviously. He would have given his right hand if there had been some one there to see him off with just that expression in her eyes—the right some one, of course. He turned away from the window with an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

He had nothing in the world but his confounded money, and a lot of good that was to him! It could not buy happiness.

The guard came down the platform—

"Take your seats—take your seats...."

A girl and a man pushed past him. The girl was staring eagerly in at all the windows as she passed. When she saw Micky she gave a little cry of relief.

"Here he is—Micky! Micky!"

Micky started to his feet.

"June!" he said. For a moment he thought something must have happened—something was wrong—Esther!... her name was trembling on his lips, but June rushed on impetuously before he had time to speak it.

"We thought we'd come and see you off—George told me you were going, and I guessed you'd be on this train.... I'm so glad we found you—it's rotten seeing oneself off, isn't it?..."

Rochester came up laughing and red in the face; he took off his hat and mopped his hot forehead.

"I can't keep pace with her, she's like a whirlwind," he said whimsically. "She raced me off here before I could say a word."

"It's kind of you to come," Micky said.

He was pleased to see them; he felt decidedly less ill-tempered than he had done a moment ago. He looked down at June's radiant face, and a little doubt went through his heart.

He was in that dangerous state through which so many men have to pass when the woman they love will have none of them. If Marie Deland had happened to turn up then, he would have asked for forgiveness and have married her offhand and regretted it the next day; and now, as he looked at June, he wondered if he had been a fool not to properly appreciate her. He felt a vague twinge of jealousy, realising that the days were gone for ever when he had been the most wonderful man in all the world to her.

He had never loved her save in a brotherly way, and he did not love her now, but at heart men are all dogs in the manger, and it was some such feeling that filled Micky's heart as he leaned out of the window and looked at this girl.

"I hope you'll have a good time," she said cheerily. "Have you got anything to read?"

"I shan't want anything—I'm not in a reading mood."

Micky was longing to ask about Esther, but pride prevented him.

The guard was blowing his whistle; doors were slamming; June gripped Micky's hand.

"Be a good boy, and have a good time," she said. There was a furious excitement in her eyes.

He made a grimace.

"I'm not expecting to have a good time," he answered.

The train was slowly moving; June ran a few steps to keep up with it. Micky blurted out his question at last—

"Miss Shepstone ... Esther ... is she all right, June?"

June smiled.

"Oh, she's first rate," she said airily. "She's gone away for a holiday.... Good-bye." She fell back laughing and waving her hand.

Micky kept his head out of the window till a cloud of smoke from the engine blown backwards shut out all sight of her, then he drew in, dragging the window up with a slam.

Gone away for a holiday, had she?—well—it was nothing to him. He turned round to go back to his seat in the corner then stopping dead, staring as if he had seen a ghost; for Esther was sitting there just behind him, looking up at him with scared eyes.

For a moment Micky did not move; he was like a man turned to stone. Then the blood rushed to his face in a crimson tide; he broke out into stammering speech—

"You ... you ... what ... what ... I thought...." He swayed forward a little and caught her hands. "You are real—I thought ... I thought I was just imagining it all; I thought.... Oh, wait a moment...." He sat down and leaned his head in his hands.

He felt sure that he must be mad or dreaming—the world had turned upside down and pitched his thoughts into chaos; he was sure that when next he looked Esther would no longer be there—he dreaded having to raise his eyes.

Esther stretched a timid hand to him; her voice shook as she said—

"Oh, I thought ... I thought perhaps you'd be glad to see me—just ... just a little—glad...."

"Glad!" Micky echoed the word with almost a shout. He got up and went over to her; he looked down at her with an agony of doubt and fear in his eyes.

"Why have you come?" he asked hoarsely. "If this is only a joke—if it's any nonsense of June's ... by God, it's the cruellest joke you could have played on me.... I—I...."

Esther covered her face with her hands.

"If that's all you've got to say to me," she began tremblingly.

"Esther...."

He drew her hands down; he forced her to look at him; for a long moment his eyes searched her face disbelievingly, not daring to hope....

Her cheeks flamed, but she met his eyes bravely.

Micky drew a long breath; he passed a hand across his eyes as if to waken himself.

Then all at once he seemed to realise that this was in very truth the woman he wanted sitting beside him; that she was here and for his sake; that he was alone and unhappy no longer; and that after all the weeks of hunger and restlessness he had got his heart's desire.

He looked down at her tremulous face with eyes of passionate tenderness.

"Is this my wife?" he asked hoarsely, and Esther answered—

"If you still want me."

"Want you!" Micky caught her to him. "Haven't I always wanted you?..."

Fortunately the train was not very full, and the corridor immediately outside their carriage was deserted, or somebody might have had a very interesting demonstration of how to kiss a woman who had refused for months to be kissed.

Micky was like a boy in his happiness. He looked years younger than the gloomy man who had dismissed Driver ten minutes since. He could not take his eyes from Esther—he could not believe in his own happiness even while he was engulfed in it. His arm was round her, regardless of chance wanderers in the corridor—he held her hand to his lips and kissed it passionately.

"What have you done with ... that other ring you used to wear?" he asked jealously.

She turned her face away.

"I threw it out of the window when we came back from Paris," she told him.

"I'll give you another. I'm going to give you everything you want now."

"You've been too good to me already," she said. "I can never repay you."

"You've given me yourself. There is nothing else in the world that I want."

He laughed happily.

He bent his head towards her.

"Esther ... when did you ... when did you first ... think that you liked me ... just a little?"

Her head dropped; he could not see her face.

"I don't know," she said in a whisper.

"In Paris," he urged, "or before? Tell me."

"I think it was in Paris—after ... after I saw ... Raymond! You were so kind ... so different."

He laughed ruefully.

"I was nearer hating you then than ever in my life."

He saw the colour creep into her face. "You've told me ever so many times that you hated me," he went on quickly, "but you never told me that you ... loved me, Esther!"

He waited, but she did not look at him.

Then suddenly she took his hand in both of hers; she bent her head and kissed it with a sort of passionate gratitude that brought a mist to Micky's eyes. He seemed to see her all at once as he had first seen her that New Year's Eve; alone, unhappy—with nobody to care what she did, or what became of her.

"You're so much, much too good for me," she said brokenly. "You've done everything for me, and I've done nothing for you—I haven't even been ... nice! I can't tell you what I feel about it all—I only know that—just lately—you've—you've made everything seem so different—since you wrote me that letter—it makes me feel in my heart that it's always really been you—always you, and never ... never any one else."

"Darling," said Micky huskily. "And perhaps—some day—do you ... do you ... think ... you could ever care for me more than ... than you cared for ... that other fellow, confound him!" he added fiercely.

She looked up at him and smiled.

"I think," she said slowly, "that I only ... only really began to care for—him—when he went away—and when those letters began to come; and so you see—it was always you, because it was you who wrote them."

"It was a rotten thing to do, but I wanted to help you."

"You did help me ... and—Micky...."

"Darling...."

"My fur coat ... can I—will you give it back to me?"

"I'll give you everything in the world if you'll say you love me...."

"I do—I...."

"Say it then," he urged gently.

For a moment she did not answer; she was still a little afraid of him; she still felt something of pride and constraint between them; though she knew it was for her to sweep away the last barrier.

She looked up at him, the sensitive colour rushing to her face.

"I love you," she said softly. "Oh, Micky, some one will see——"

But Micky only laughed.

* * * * *

The train was running on to Dover Harbour before Micky realised it; he looked at Esther with pretended dismay in his happy eyes.

"And pray, what am I to do with you, madame? Do you realise that I'm going to Paris?"

"I know——" She laughed. "I'm going there too—of course, if you'd like to travel in a different train to me...."

She was a very different Esther from the pale, frightened-looking girl who had said good-bye to June at Victoria. Her eyes were dancing now, and her face was radiant. Micky regarded her with proud satisfaction.

"You look years younger and prettier already," he said. "And that's after only an hour or two of my wonderful society; so what you'll look like when we've been married for years and years...."

He stopped, and a sudden emotion filled his face.

"What shall we do, love of mine?" he asked tenderly, "Shall we go on, or shall we go back?"

She shook her head.

"I don't mind—either way, I'm afraid you'll have to pay for me," she told him saucily. "June rushed me off so, I forgot my purse—Mr. Rochester got me a ticket, but...."

"We'll go on," said Micky hurriedly. The train was almost at a standstill. "You said you hated Paris—but you won't hate it with me. We'll get married as soon as we get there—I'll take you everywhere."

Her eyes fell.

"I haven't any nice clothes—I only brought a small case; I never thought you ... you...." She stopped, stammering.

"Paris is full of clothes," he told her. "We'll stay just long enough to buy what you want, and then we'll go south. Esther, you've never seen the south of France in springtime, have you? I'll take you there for our honeymoon."

She drew back a little.

"But, Micky—there's June—what will she say—what will she think?"

"She'll think that you've behaved sensibly—at last!" he answered audaciously. "June knew she wouldn't see either of us again for some time when we left her at Victoria—June is a most discerning woman."

"She's a dear," said Esther warmly. "I owe all my happiness to her."

Micky pretended to look offended.

"I was under the delusion that you owed it to me," he said with dignity.

"To you!" Her face changed wonderfully; she bent her head and kissed the sleeve of his coat.

"I can't talk about what I owe you—it's just—everything!"

Micky drew himself up a dignified inch.

"I'm beginning to think I'm a very wonderful man, do you know?" he said, addressing some imaginary person.

Driver appeared at the door. He hesitated for just the faintest possible moment when he saw Esther, but his face was as stolid as ever.

Micky rose to the occasion, though he turned rather red.

"Driver," he said, "let me introduce you to my wife——"

Driver touched a respectful forelock; if he felt surprise he did not show it.

He took Esther's suit-case down from the rack.

"Was you—was you wanting to send a wire, sir?" he asked stolidly.

Micky looked at the girl beside him.

"Send June one from Paris," she said. "I don't know what she'll say——"

But June might have been expecting the wire, judging from the calm way in which she received it; she showed it to Rochester as if it were nothing out of the way; she looked over his shoulder as he read it.

"Married in Paris this morning. Love from Mr. and Mrs. Micky."

She laughed and met Rochester's eyes; there seemed to be an inquiry in his. June hesitated a moment, then she nodded.

And forty-eight hours later Micky and Esther read her reply just as they were leaving for the flower-fields of France—

"Married in London this morning—June and George."

"Some people have no originality," Micky complained in pretended disgust.

"But if they're half as happy as we are," Esther said shyly.

Micky looked scornfully sceptical.

"Oh well! if you're going to expect the impossible...." he submitted.

THE END



"The Books You Like to Read at the Price You Like to Pay"

There Are Two Sides to Everything—

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B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

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ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

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THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

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GREATHEART

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THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

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TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY

It was as Tess, beautiful, wild, impetuous, that Mary Pickford made her reputation as a motion picture actress. How love acts upon a temperament such as hers—a temperament that makes a woman an angel or an outcast, according to the character of the man she loves—is the theme of the story.

THE SECRET OF THE STORM COUNTRY

The sequel to "Tess of the Storm Country," with the same wild background, with its half-gypsy life of the squatters—tempestuous, passionate, brooding. Tess learns the "secret" of her birth and finds happiness and love through her boundless faith in life.

FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING

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ROSE O' PARADISE

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LOVE STORIES.

This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love affairs—sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness.

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K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympathetic appreciation.

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A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met the situation is entertainingly told.

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THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. (Photoplay Edition.)

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means.

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A BACHELOR HUSBAND

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In its solving of this particular variety of triangle "A Bachelor Husband" will particularly interest, and strangely enough, without one shock to the most conventional minded.

THE SCAR

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THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW

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THE UPHILL ROAD

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WINDS OF THE WORLD

Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess and inherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last—but we must leave that to Ruby M. Ayres to tell you as only she can.

THE SECOND HONEYMOON

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THE PHANTOM LOVER

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THE EVERLASTING WHISPER

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DESERT VALLEY

A college professor sets out with his daughter to find gold. They meet a rancher who loses his heart, and become involved in a feud. An intensely exciting story.

MAN TO MAN

Encircled with enemies, distrusted, Steve defends his rights. How he won his game and the girl he loved is the story filled with breathless situations.

THE BELLS OF SAN JUAN

Dr. Virginia Page is forced to go with the sheriff on a night journey into the strongholds of a lawless band. Thrills and excitement sweep the reader along to the end.

JUDITH OF BLUE LAKE RANCH

Judith Sanford part owner of a cattle ranch realizes she is being robbed by her foreman. How, with the help of Bud Lee, she checkmates Trevor's scheme makes fascinating reading.

THE SHORT CUT

Wayne is suspected of killing his brother after a violent quarrel. Financial complications, villains, a horse-race and beautiful Wanda, all go to make up a thrilling romance.

THE JOYOUS TROUBLE MAKER

A reporter sets up housekeeping close to Beatrice's Ranch much to her chagrin. There is "another man" who complicates matters, but all turns out as it should in this tale of romance and adventure.

SIX FEET FOUR

Beatrice Waverly is robbed of $5,000 and suspicion fastens upon Buck Thornton, but she soon realizes he is not guilty. Intensely exciting, here is a real story of the Great Far West.

WOLF BREED

No Luck Drennan had grown hard through loss of faith in men he had trusted. A woman hater and sharp of tongue, he finds a match in Ygerne whose clever fencing wins the admiration and love of the "Lone Wolf."

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THE END