Somewhere out in the night a woman was crying, crying desolately. The sad, rather monotonous sound broke the silence of the street and floated through the open window of a room where Micky Mellowes was wondering how the deuce he should get through the long evening lying before him.

Micky was in a bad temper. It was not often that he was in a bad temper, but he had begun the day by waking with a headache, which was still with him, and which accounted for the wide open window and the breath of icy air which was filling the room and fluttering the curtains; and half an hour ago some people with whom he had been going to dine had rung up and told him that the party was off owing to the sudden death of a relative, thereby leaving the evening long and empty on his hands.

It was New Year’s Eve, too, which made matters a thundering sight worse.

He wondered if Marie Deland was feeling as sick about it as he was. Micky was in the middle of an interesting flirtation with Marie, which bade fair to develop into something deeper with careful engineering on the part of her family, for Micky was a catch, and though so far he had proved himself singularly adroit in avoiding mothers with marriageable daughters, the Delands were beginning to pat each other on the back and to look pleased.

When the sound of crying reached him he had been 4 feeling so thoroughly fed-up with life that it had seemed impossible for anything ever to interest him again; but now he climbed out of his chair with a faint show of energy and strolled over to the window.

It was a cold, clear night, with myriads of stars in the dark sky that seemed to shed a faintly luminous light to earth, bright enough at all events for Micky to distinguish the figure of a girl walking slowly along the pathway below.

She was walking so slowly and dispiritedly that a sort of vague curiosity stirred in Micky’s heart; here, at least, was some one even more fed-up with life than he himself, and with a sudden impulse he turned from the window, and, snatching up a hat and coat which he had thrown down when he came in an hour earlier, made for the stairs.

He was half-way down when an apologetic cough at his elbow arrested him; he stopped and turned.

“Well, what is it?”

“If you please, sir, Mr. Ashton has just sent round to ask if you could make it convenient to be in at ten o’clock this evening, as he wants to see you particularly.”

Micky looked surprised; Ashton had been very particularly engaged for that evening, he knew. Evidently something had happened to upset his plans as well.

“Ten o’clock? All right; I dare say I shall be in.”

He went on down the stairs.

Out on the path he paused and looked up and down the street.

The impulse that had sent him out had died away; it was beastly cold, and much more comfortable by the fire. He hesitated, and in that moment he saw the figure of the girl again.

She had stopped now in the light of a street lamp, and seemed to be looking at something she carried in her arms––a child! Surely not a child!

Micky’s curiosity was aroused. He buttoned the collar of his coat more closely round his chin and went on.

The girl had moved too, almost as if she felt instinctively that she was being followed, and as Micky drew abreast with her she shrank a little to one side as if afraid.

“What’s the matter?” asked Micky bluntly.

They were some few yards from the lamp now. But, as she turned to look up at him with startled eyes, its yellow light fell on her face; and Micky saw with amazement that she was quite young and exceedingly pretty, in spite of the distress in her eyes, and the tears that were still wet on her cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” he asked again, more gently, and waited for the pathetically shaken denial which he felt sure would come.

“Nothing––nothing at all.”

“Nothing!” There was a note of exasperation in his voice. “You were crying––I heard you, and people don’t walk about the streets at this time of night and cry if there’s nothing the matter. If that’s a baby you’ve got with you, you ought to know better than to–––” He broke off. She was laughing, a weak, uncertain little laugh.

“A baby!” she said tremulously. “It isn’t a baby; it’s a cat.”

“A cat!” Micky’s voice was full of disgust. He looked down at her from his superior height with sudden suspicion. If this was just a hoax?

“Well, what’s the matter anyway?” he asked again.

She looked away from him without answering.

Micky began to feel a bit of a fool; he wished he had not yielded to the impulse to follow her. After all, it was no business of his if a stranger chose to walk about his road and weep; he looked at her impatiently.

Her hair beneath its not very smart hat shone golden in the lamplight, and the little oval of cheek and rounded chin which was all he could see of her averted face somehow touched a forgotten chord in his heart and made him think of his boyhood and the girl-mother 6 who had not lived long enough to be more than a memory....

“Don’t think I’m interfering or trying to annoy you,” he said again. “But if there is anything I can do to help you....”

She shook her head.

“There isn’t anything.... I ought to have known better than to let you hear that I was crying ... there’s nothing the matter, I–––” Then quite suddenly she broke down again into bitter sobbing. “Oh, I’m so miserable––so utterly miserable––I wish I were dead!”

Micky was appalled; he had heard women say that sort of thing before, and had said it himself scores of times, but never with that note of tragedy which he heard in this girl’s voice.

Ten minutes ago he had considered himself the most miserable of mortals because he had been let down over a dinner; he was ashamed of his temper now as he stood there in the starlight and listened to this girl’s sobbing.

“Look here,” he said after a moment, “you’ll never feel any better if you stay out here in the cold. I don’t suppose you’ve had a respectable meal for hours either––I know what women are. Where do you live? You’ll soon feel better when you get beside a fire and have something to eat.”

“I’m not going home any more,” she said.

She spoke quite quietly, but with a sort of despair which there was no mistaking.

Micky was a rapid thinker. He had clean forgotten his headache. This was adventure with a capital letter. There was still something of romance in the world which his jaded palate had not yet tasted.

“I’m sure you’re tired,” he said gently, “and probably fed-up. So am I. I was just wondering what in the world to do with myself when I heard you crying. It made me feel a sort of kinship with you––it did, upon 7 my word. If I’d been a woman I dare say I should have been howling like anything. Will you come along with me and let me give you some supper? I’m hungry too....”

She shrank back from him with a little gesture of fear.

“Oh no––please let me go!...”

She tried to pass him, but Micky barred the way.

“You can’t walk about the streets all night,” he said determinedly. “The cat will hate it anyway, even if you don’t mind.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice, though he had never felt more serious in all his life. “And if you don’t want me to take pity on you, you might at least take pity on me ... please don’t think I’m a bounder trying to annoy you or anything like that ... perhaps I want a friend just as badly as you do....” He stopped, aghast at his own temerity.

“If you do,” she said tremulously, “I am more sorry for you than I can say.”

“I’m glad you said that,” Micky answered, “because now you’ll come along and have that supper with me. There’s a little cafÉ quite near here that I know. If we are both miserable, we can at least be miserable together.”

Something told him that this girl was at the end of her tether; that she was desperate, and his first casual curiosity concerning her deepened in the most surprising fashion.

He felt in some inexplicable way that a curtain had been lifted from a phase of life hitherto hidden from him; as if he were standing on the threshold of a new world, where women only weep for something real and tragic, not just butterfly tears of petulance like the women of his own class.

The girl was silent for a moment; then suddenly she laughed, a hard little laugh of recklessness.

“Very well,” she said. “I suppose I may as well.”

Micky was infinitely relieved; somehow he had not really thought that she would allow him to accompany her.

They walked along for a few steps in silence. Once or twice the cat, tucked under the girl’s arm, gave a faint mieow of protest, and Micky smiled to himself in the darkness.

It was the cat that seemed to give such a real touch of pathos to the whole adventure, he thought, and wondered why. He looked down at her deprecatingly.

“Let me carry it,” he suggested.

“Carry it?” she echoed. “What do you mean?––Oh, the cat; no, thank you. He wouldn’t like it: he hates strangers.”

“Oh!” said Micky. He felt chagrined. “Is it a great pet?” he asked.

“Yes.” She hunched her queer burden more closely under her arm. “It isn’t really mine,” she explained. “But they were so unkind to it in the house that I had to bring it.”

Micky was dying to ask questions, but somehow it hardly seemed a propitious moment. He did not speak again till they reached the little cafÉ.

It was a quiet little downstairs place, and just now was almost deserted.

Micky chose a corner table which was partially screened from the rest of the room. As he stood up to take off his coat he looked at the girl interestedly.

She was better than pretty, he decided with a little pleasurable thrill; he could not remember when he had seen a face that appealed to him so strongly in spite of its pathos and the tear stains round her eyes.

And such sweet eyes they were!––really grey with dark lashes and daintily pencilled brows. She looked up suddenly, meeting his earnest regard.

“Well?” she said. There was a touch of defiance in her voice; the colour had risen in her white cheeks.

“Well?” said Micky with a friendly smile.

He sat down opposite to her; he was thanking his lucky stars that the Delands’ message had reached him before he changed into evening clothes; somehow as he looked at this girl he felt slightly ashamed of his own lazy, luxurious life and the banking account which, like the cruse of oil, never failed. That this girl had no surplus of this world’s goods he was certain, though she was neatly dressed and was unmistakably a lady. Her gloves were worn and had been carefully mended, and her coat looked far too thin for such a cold night.

“Well, what are we going to have?” he asked. It was surprising how cheerful he felt. “And what about that wonderful cat of yours? By the way, hasn’t it got a name?”

She smiled faintly.

“I call him Charlie,” she said.

“Charlie!” Micky’s eyes twinkled. “Well, it’s original, anyway,” he said with a chuckle. “And Charlie must have some milk, I suppose. I say, he’s a bit thin, isn’t he?” he asked dubiously.

She had taken off the shawl which had been wrapped about it, and the poor animal sat on her lap blinking in the light, a forlorn enough specimen, with a long tail and fierce eyes.

The girl stroked its head.

“He’s been half starved,” she said. “You’d be thin if you hadn’t had any more to eat than he’s had.”

“I’m sure I should,” said Micky humbly. He thought guiltily of the waste which he knew went on in his own establishment; it was odd that it had never struck him before that there must be many people in the world, not to mention cats, who would be glad enough of the waste from his table.

He picked up the menu to hide his discomfort. When the waiter came he ordered the best dinner the restaurant served. He was conscious that the girl was watching him anxiously. When the waiter had gone, she said, “I can’t afford to have a dinner like that.”

Micky flushed crimson.

“I thought you were dining with me,” he stammered. “I––I hope you will––I shall be only too honoured....”

Her grey eyes met his anxiously.

“I’ve never done a thing like this before,” she said in distress. “I don’t know what you are thinking of me ... but ... well, I suppose I was just desperate....” She broke off biting her lip, then she rushed on again. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever see me any more, so it doesn’t really matter much, but....”

“I hope to see you again, many times,” said Micky, with an earnestness that surprised himself.

She looked away, and her face hardened.

“I suppose men are all the same,” she said, after a moment. “However....” she shrugged her shoulders with a sort of recklessness that made Micky frown. She leaned back in her chair with sudden weariness. “It’s very kind of you,” she said disinterestedly.

“It’s not kind at all,” he hastened to assure her. “I’m much more pleased to be with you than you are to be with me. If it hadn’t been for you I should have spent this evening alone––New Year’s Eve, too,” he added, with a sort of chagrin and a sudden memory of Marie Deland.

“New Year’s Eve!” she echoed. She closed her eyes for a moment, and Micky had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that she was looking back on the year that was dying and could see nothing pleasant in the whole of the twelve months. Presently she opened them again with a little sigh. “Well, I don’t want another year like the last one,” she said.

“You won’t have,” he told her promptly. “I’ve got a sort of feeling that there are lots of good things coming along for you. The luck has to change some time or other, and if you’ve had a rotten time in the past you won’t have it in the future.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” she said.

“Don’t you? I do,” Micky declared. He hated the despondency in her face; he felt a strong desire to see 11 her smiling and happy. He rattled on, talking any nonsense that came into his head.

The waiter came down the room and set the dishes on the table. He gave a sort of supercilious sniff when Micky asked for a saucer of milk for the cat. He looked at Charlie with scorn––Charlie, curled up on the girl’s lap now and purring lustily.

“Of course, you know, we really ought to have a bottle of wine,” Micky said dubiously. “Just something cheap, as it’s New Year’s Eve.”

He would like to have given her champagne, but dared not suggest it. He was quite sure that if she knew he was a rich man she would fly off at a tangent. He ordered an inexpensive bottle of red wine and filled her glass.

“Well, here’s luck to the New Year,” he said sententiously. “And to our delightfully unexpected meeting,” he added.

She flushed up to her eyes.

“Are you always as kind to people as you have been to me?” she asked tensely.

Micky blushed.

“Oh, I say!” he protested. “You don’t call this being kind, do you? I assure you it’s just pure selfishness. I should have spent my evening alone if we hadn’t met––and I hate being alone; I bore myself stiff in five minutes. I’m just––honoured that you should have allowed me to eat my supper with you. If you knew how beastly fed-up I was feeling ... the world seemed a positively loathsome place.”

She laughed; she leaned her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, looking at him with thoughtful eyes.

“Are you poor?” she asked with disarming frankness.

“Poor as a church mouse,” said Micky promptly. “At least”––he hastened to amend his words––“I’m one of those unfortunate beggars who spend money as fast as they get it. I’ve never saved a halfpenny in my life.”

This at least was the truth.

She nodded.

“Neither have I––I’ve never had one to save....”

The despondency was back again in her voice; Micky broke in hastily––

“Before we go any further I think we ought to know one another’s names.” He fumbled in a pocket for a card, but changed his mind quickly, remembering that his cards bore the address of the expensive flat which he honoured with his presence. “My name is Mellowes,” he said. “I’ve got several Christian names as well, but people call me Micky....” He waited, looking at her expectantly. “Won’t you tell me yours?” he asked.

She was staring down at her plate. He could see the dark fringe of lashes against her cheeks. Suddenly she looked up.

“Why do you want to know my name? We shall never meet again, I–––”

Micky leaned a little forward.

“If we don’t,” he said quietly, “it will be the greatest disappointment I have ever had.”

She looked at him with a sort of fear.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “You don’t really mean that ... you’re just one of those men who say things like that to every woman you–––” She broke off, struck by the chagrin in Micky’s face. “No––I oughtn’t to have said that,” she went on hurriedly. “I beg your pardon ... I ought not to have said it, and I will tell you my name if you really want to know. My name is Esther––Esther Shepstone.”

“Thank you!” said Micky. “And now we’re going to drink to good resolutions for the New Year ... have you made one yet?”

She shook her head.

“What’s the use? Besides ... I don’t want to make any.”

“Very well, then, I’ll make one for you.” He refilled her glass and handed it to her. “Now say after me: ‘I 13 resolve that during the coming year I will be good friends with Micky Mellowes–––’ Oh, I say, don’t––please don’t....”

She had dropped her face in her hands again, and Micky had a miserable conviction that she was crying.

But he was wrong, for presently she looked up again, and her eyes were dry, though a little hard and bright.

“I don’t believe in a man’s friendship for a woman,” she said. “But I’ll say it, if you like,” and she took the glass from his hand.

“And to-morrow,” said Micky presently, “I’m going to take you out to tea or something––if I may,” he added hurriedly.

He waited, but she did not speak. “May I?” he asked.

She was twisting the stem of her wineglass nervously; after a moment she began to speak jerkily.

“When I came out to-night I didn’t mean to go back any more,” she said. Her voice was low and full of a weary bitterness. “I was so unhappy I didn’t want to live.” She caught her breath. “If it hadn’t been for you”––she was looking at him now with shame in her eyes. “If it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have gone back––ever–––” she added. “But now....”

“But now,” said Micky as she paused, “you’re going back, and we’re going to start the new year––friends, you and I! Is that a bargain?” he asked.

“Yes....”

Outside Micky hailed a taxicab.

“You’re much too tired to walk,” he said when she protested. “And it will be a new experience for Charlie,” he added with a twinkle.

He put her into the cab, and stood for a moment at the door.

“And the address?” he asked.

She hesitated, looking away from him; then suddenly she told him.

“It’s Brixton Road––it’s––it’s a very horrid boarding-house,” she added with a half-sigh.

“Boarding-houses are all horrid,” said Micky cheerily. “But I’ll come down myself to-morrow and see how bad it really is.”

He tried to see her face.

“Shall you be in if I come in the afternoon?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes.”

“About four, then,” said Micky. He groped for her hand, found it, and pressed it. “Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night.”

And the next moment Micky was alone in the starlight.

He stood looking after the taxi with a queer sense of unreality. Had he just dreamt it all, and was there really no such girl as Esther Shepstone? No Charlie? He shook himself together with a laugh. Of course it was real, all of it! He walked on soberly through the cold night.

To-morrow he would go to the very horrid boarding-house in the Brixton Road and see her again.

Esther! He liked her name; there was something quaint and old-world about it. It seemed impossible that they had only met a few hours ago.

His headache had quite vanished. He was whistling a snatch of song when he let himself into the house and went upstairs.

He opened the door of his sitting-room, and then stopped dead on the threshold. The lights were burning fully, and a man was ensconced in his favourite armchair by the fire––Ashton. Lord! he had forgotten all about Ashton.

Micky looked guiltily at the clock––nearly eleven!––he began a half-apology.

“Awfully sorry, old man––I was kept.... Been waiting long?”

“I got here at ten.”

Ashton climbed out of the chair and looked at Micky with a sort of shamefacedness.

“Don’t take your coat off,” he said suddenly. “I want you to come out again–––”

“Out! Now! Look at the time, man!”

“I know––it’s only eleven.... I’m catching the midnight to Dover....”

Micky stared.

“Dover! What in the world....”

Ashton turned round and looked down at the fire with a sort of embarrassment.

“It’s the mater,” he said jerkily. “She’s found out–––”

Micky looked puzzled.

“Found out! What on earth....”

Ashton made an impatient gesture. He was a good-looking man, with dark eyes that could look all manner of things without in the least meaning them.

“About that girl at Eldred’s,” he said in a strangled voice. “You know! I told you about her. Lord, man, don’t look so confoundedly ignorant! I told you about her,” he broke off. “Well, some one’s told the mater, and this morning....” he shrugged his shoulders. “There’s been old Harry to pay! She told me if I didn’t give her up she’d cut me out of her will. She would, too!” he added, in savage parenthesis.

“Well! and what did you say?”

Ashton looked round.

“Hang it all! what could I say? Told her I would, of course.”

There was a sharp silence.

“I thought you liked the girl,” said Micky bluntly.

The other man winced.

“So I did––so I do.... It’s a rotten shame. If you’d ever seen her ... you never have, have you?”

“No.”

“Neither has the mater.... Women are all the same; because the girl has to work for her living they think she isn’t fit for me to marry.... It’s all a lot of rot.... However––beggars can’t be choosers––and so I’m off to-night.”

Micky looked at him keenly.

“You mean that you’re going without a word to the girl?”

“What can I do?––I went and saw her this morning––we had a rotten scene. I meant to tell her it was all up, but somehow I couldn’t; I’m too dashed fond of her, and that’s the truth. I can’t bear to see her cry––it makes me feel such a cur....”

He waited a moment, but Micky made no comment.

“So the only thing is to clear out,” Ashton went on jerkily. “I can’t afford to quarrel with the mater, you know that.... Perhaps some day....” He stopped. “After all, she can’t live for ever,” he added brutally.

Micky said nothing.

“So I’m off to-night,” Ashton went on with an effort. “I wanted to see you––I knew I could trust you....” He fumbled in a pocket. “There’s a letter here.... I’ve written––I couldn’t see her again. I know I’m a coward, but ... well, there it is!”

He threw the letter down on the table.

“Will you go and see her, old chap, and give her that?” he asked with an effort. “Tell her I––oh, tell her what you like,” he went on fiercely. “Tell her that if I could afford it....”

He stopped again, and this time the silence was unbroken for some minutes.

Then he roused himself and picked up his coat. “Well, I must be getting along. I left my baggage at the station.”

He looked at Micky. “I suppose you think I’m an infernal sweep, eh?” he asked curtly.

“No,” said Micky.

He had always expected that Ashton’s romance would end like this, and he felt vaguely sorry for the girl, though he had never seen her. She must have expected it, too, he thought. She must have known Ashton’s position all along. He followed his friend out of the room.

“You haven’t told me her address,” he said suddenly.

He decided that it would be better to send the letter––he did not want to see her. He hated a scene as much as Ashton did.

Ashton was at the top of the stairs.

“It’s on the letter. What have you done with it?”

There was an irritable note in his voice. “Don’t leave it lying there for that man of yours to see.”

Micky went back into the room. The letter lay on the table where Ashton had thrown it down.

He picked it up, glancing casually at the written address as he did so. Then suddenly his tall figure stiffened, and a curiously blank look filled his eyes, for the name scribbled there in Ashton’s writing was––

“Miss Esther Shepstone,” and, below it, the number of the very horrid boarding-house in the Brixton Road.

---