In spite of the events of the night Micky Mellowes slept soundly. It was half-past nine when he woke, to find his man Driver moving noiselessly about the room.

When he saw that Micky was awake he approached the bed.

“Good-morning, sir, and a happy New Year.”

Driver had an expressionless voice; he announced tea or tragedy in exactly the same tone.

“Eh?” said Micky vacantly; the words opened the door of memory, and he sat up with a start. It was New Year’s Day, and last night ... ye gods! what had not happened last night? Micky tingled to the tips of his fingers as he remembered the letter he had written and posted; he had expected to feel rotten about it in the light of day; it was an agreeable surprise to find that he did not feel anything of the kind.

When he went in to breakfast there was a pile of letters waiting for him; he looked them through carelessly––there was one from Marie Deland, which he opened with a vague feeling of nervousness.

Marie was a nice little girl; he really was quite fond of her, and yet ... surely the days of miracles had not yet passed away, seeing that in a few short hours his feeling for her had changed from something warmer to more brotherly affection.

It made him feel uncomfortable to read what she had written; it was really only quite an ordinary letter of regret that she had not seen him last night, but Micky imagined he could read more between the lines.

“... I quite hoped you would drop in, if only 31 for a few moments,” so she wrote. “It’s been so dull. I am writing this alone in the library.”

Micky knew that library well; he and she had spent a good deal of time there together talking sweet nothings; he wondered if he would have been an engaged man by this time if that relative of the Delands had not so conveniently died, and if Esther had not chosen his particular street in which to weep.

He screwed the letter up and tossed it into the fire; he would answer it some time, or call; there was no immediate hurry. When he had finished his breakfast he went to his locked desk and took out Ashton’s letter––somehow until he actually saw it again he could not quite believe that the events of last night had not all been a dream; but the letter was real enough, at all events with its callous beginning to “Dear Lallie.”

The morning seemed to drag; twice people rang him up on the ’phone and asked him to lunch, but Micky was not in the mood for lunch; he felt a suppressed sort of excitement, as if something of great import were about to happen.

Driver looked at him woodenly once or twice; his face was as expressionless as his voice, but his dull eyes saw everything, and behind them his keen brain wondered what had happened to make Micky so restless.

Towards one o’clock he ventured a gentle reminder.

“You have an engagement for half-past three, sir––Miss Langdon’s.”

Micky was yawning over the paper then; he looked up with an absurdly blank face.

“Oh, I say!––well, I can’t go, anyway. What was it for? I’m going out––I’ve got an important appointment.”

Driver never showed surprise at anything if he felt it.

“It was a musical ‘At ’Ome,’ sir,” he answered stolidly. “Shall I ring up and say that you won’t be able to come?”

“Yes, ring up,” said Micky. He coloured self-consciously beneath the man’s stoic eyes and hurriedly buried his head again in the newspaper.

At three o’clock he changed his clothes for an immaculate morning-coat and grey trousers; then, remembering what Esther had said about the very horrid boarding-house, he changed them again for the oldest tweed suit in his possession, and a pair of brown boots that had seen their best days and long since been condemned by Driver.

“How in the world do I get to Brixton?” Micky asked the man when he was ready. “I know I could take a taxicab, but I don’t want to. What other ways are there?”

Driver told him.

“There’s the train, sir, or a tram.”

Micky jumped at the tramcar. He was sure that people who lived in Brixton must all use tramcars.

“How long would a tramcar take?” he asked.

Driver considered. Finally he said that he thought it might be the best part of an hour.

Micky glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter past three. He took up his hat hurriedly and went out into the street.

A taxicab would have to do for to-day anyway. He could dismiss it at the corner of the road and walk the last few yards. A moment later he was being whirled through the streets.

He sat leaning back in the corner with his feet up on the seat opposite, feeling decidedly nervous.

Supposing he did not see Esther––supposing she were not there? Supposing she had purposely given him the wrong address? Supposing ... oh, supposing a thousand and one things! Micky was full of apprehension when at last the taxicab stopped at the corner of the Brixton Road and the driver came to the door to ask what number.

Micky scrambled out.

“Oh, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

He paid the man liberally, and set out along the crowded pathway. There were so many people about 33 that he thought it must be a market day or something. A word with a policeman elicited the information that he was at quite the wrong end of the street for the number he wanted. Micky was rather glad. He felt that he needed time in which to collect his thoughts, and yet when at last he reached his destination he felt as nervous as a kitten and strongly inclined to go back. But he went on and up the bare strip of garden which led to the front door of the house. It wasn’t such a bad-looking house, he thought. Not nearly as bad as he had expected from the girl’s description. In fact, once upon a time it must have been rather a palatial residence, but all the windows now were boxed up with cheap, starchy-looking curtains, and there was a sort of third-rate atmosphere about the basement and the cheap knocker on the front door.

Micky looked for a bell, but there wasn’t one, so he knocked.

It seemed a long time before anybody came. When at last they did he heard them coming for a long time before the door was opened, heard slipshod steps on shiny linoleum, and a husky sort of breathless cough.

The owner of the cough was young and scared-looking, in shoes several sizes too large for her, and a skirt several inches too short. When Micky asked for Miss Shepstone she stared without answering for a moment, then she turned and slopped back the way she had come, leaving the door on the chain.

Micky chuckled to himself; she evidently did not like the look of him.

He waited patiently; then he heard another step along the shiny linoleumed floor of the hall––a very different step this time––and, turning eagerly, he saw Esther herself in the doorway.

“I didn’t really think you would come,” she said breathlessly.

For a moment Micky could not find his tongue. If he had thought this girl pretty last night with the tears 34 in her eyes he thought her a thousand times prettier now. She looked as if some magician hand had wiped the distress from her face and convinced her that the sun still shone.

She wore the same clothes she had worn last night, but even they seemed somehow to have changed. There was a bunch of violets pinned in her jacket. Micky wondered if it were the violets that were responsible for the alteration.

“When I make an appointment I always keep it,” he said.

He had almost added “with any one like you,” but thought better of it. “And are you going to let me take you out to tea?” he asked.

She hesitated; she glanced back into the dingy hall behind her.

“I am leaving here to-day,” she said. “My box has gone already. If you will wait a moment ... I would ask you in, but you’d hate it so.”

“I’ll wait outside,” said Micky.

He went down into the street. For the moment he had quite forgotten all about Ashton and the letter which must by this time be in Esther’s possession.

“And what about Charlie?” he asked whimsically when she joined him.

She smiled, shaking her head.

“I sent him on––in a basket. Nobody wants him here––he only gets badgered about all day long; so I’m taking him with me. Do you think I ought not to?”

“I think Charlie is a most fortunate cat,” said Micky.

She did not take him seriously.

“I think he will be happier with me anyway,” she said “I’m going to quite a nice boarding-house now. I went out this morning and found it.” She looked up at him with a smile. “I don’t think even you would mind coming to tea there,” she said.

“I thought you were going to say mind coming there to live,” Micky told her audaciously. “I’ve been looking 35 about for fresh diggings; I’m tired of mine.” He stopped and glanced behind him. “Can we get a tramcar here?”

“I’m not tired,” she said quickly.

“Well, I must admit that I am,” Micky answered. He hated walking at the best of times, and he did not like to suggest another taxicab. “Let’s go on top.”

They climbed up and found a front seat; there was a working man next to them smoking shag in a clay pipe; he looked at Micky and Esther doubtfully, then asked––

“Does your good lady mind smoke, mister?”

Esther flushed.

“I don’t mind at all,” she said, laughing.

“You got home all right last night, then?” Micky said presently. “After you had gone I wished I had seen you safely in....”

“It’s kind of you, but I was quite all right.” There was a note of constraint in her voice. “I should like to thank you for what you did for me last night,” she said hesitatingly.

“If it hadn’t been for you....” She stopped.

Micky did not know what to say.

“Anyway, it’s all right now, eh?” he asked presently, with awkward cheerfulness. “I thought it would be; when things look so black that they can’t possibly look any blacker, they always begin to mend. I’ve found that out before; I don’t know if you have.”

“I found it out this morning.”

Micky looked down at her. She was sitting with her hands clasped together in her lap; there was a little flush in her cheeks, and her lips were curved into a faint smile.

“It seems so wonderful too,” she went on softly, “that it should have happened on New Year’s Day–––”

“Fares, all fares, please,” said the conductor beside them. Micky dived into a pocket and found a shilling.

“Two, please,” he said.

He had paid for and shared taxicabs with Marie Deland times without number, but it had never given him 36 quite the same pleasurable little thrill as he experienced at this moment.

There was something so pleasantly familiar about this tramcar ride, the fact of sharing the same uncomfortable seat with Esther Shepstone.

“Penny ones?” the conductor asked.

Micky looked at the girl.

“Where shall we get off?” he asked.

“Penny ones will do,” she said.

Micky took the tickets and pocketed his change.

“I don’t know if there are any decent teashops round here,” he said dubiously. “If you would rather go up to the West End....”

But finally they found a confectioner’s quite close to where the penny fare ended.

Micky looked round critically.

“Is this all right?” he asked. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I have, often,” she said. She was drawing off her gloves.

Micky glanced hurriedly at her hands; she was wearing a ring. Hardly knowing that he did so, he leaned across and touched it.

“Is that an engagement ring?” he asked. His voice sounded a little breathless.

She looked up at him, drawing her hand away.

“Why do you ask me?”

He drew back; he shrugged his shoulders.

“I beg your pardon. I suppose I have no right to ask.”

He ordered tea. He talked rather forced platitudes for the rest of the time. He was just going to call for the bill, when Esther Shepstone said suddenly––

“Mr. Mellowes, I should like to tell you something.”

“Yes!” Micky did not look at her. Somehow he could not trust himself.

“I don’t in the least know why I want to tell you,” 37 she said again nervously. “But––you’ve been so kind to me....”

“Yes!” said Micky gently, as she paused. “Yes, what is it?”

She was twisting her teaspoon, and she kept her eyes lowered.

“Last night, when I met you––I was very unhappy ... There didn’t seem anything to live for in the world.... I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that, or if you have ever cared for any one––really cared, I mean––but if you have....” She stopped again.

“I think I understand,” Micky said, with an effort. “You mean that there’s some one, some man....”

She raised her grey eyes to his face.

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Some man you care for––care for very much,” Micky went on slowly. “Perhaps some one you have quarreled with––who hadn’t been quite as ... kind as he might have been–––”

The soft colour flooded her face.

“Did you guess––last night?” she asked shyly.

Micky smiled.

“Did I? I am not sure, perhaps.” He drew a long breath that was half a sigh. “Well?” he queried.

“I don’t know why I am telling you this–––” she said again, with a sort of distress. “It cannot interest you, but, somehow, I think I should like you to know.”

“It interests me very much––I am honoured that you should tell me.” Micky looked again at the ring she wore; quite a cheap little ring, with a couple of inferior diamonds. “You mean that you are engaged to be married?”

“Yes; at least–––” The words were only a whisper.

Micky sat very still.

“Well, I suppose you will have me for a friend all the same, won’t you?” he asked with an effort.

She looked at him in faint amazement.

“I thought if I told you that perhaps you’d rather not....” She stopped in confusion.

Micky leaned a little closer over the table.

“You said last night that you didn’t believe in a man’s friendship for a woman,” he said. “Well, I am going to make you believe in it. I’m going to be your friend. The fact that you are engaged makes no difference to me, if it doesn’t to you.”

She looked at him earnestly.

“If you mean that,” she said, “I think I’m very glad.”

“Thank you. I suppose I mustn’t ask who the––the lucky man is?”

She shook her head.

“I can’t tell you. And he’s away now––out of England.”

Her voice changed a little, her eyes looked past Micky as if for the moment she had forgotten him.

Micky watched her jealously.

“And so whatever was wrong last night is all right to-day, is that it?” he asked with an effort.

“Yes ... somehow I never thought it would be, but this morning–––”

“This morning?” he echoed as she stopped.

“I had a letter this morning,” she told him, and her voice had softened so wonderfully that Micky caught his breath. “Oh, I wonder if you have ever been as unhappy as I was last night, and then had a letter, a wonderful letter like I had this morning? There was something in it that seemed to put everything right straight away; something that I’ve always wanted before and never had. I can’t explain it any better than that, but perhaps you understand. I’m just telling you because I feel so happy I must tell somebody, and because I didn’t want you to misjudge him as I did yesterday. I thought he didn’t really care, and I wanted to die, but to-day, when his letter came–––” She broke off into a little happy laugh.

Micky had rammed his clenched hands into his pockets; 39 the blood was hammering in his temples; his brain felt in a whirl; somehow in all his wildest imaginings he had never dreamed of this.

It was his letter that had brought that new look of happiness to her eyes! His letter which perhaps even then lay against her heart; the first love-letter he had ever written to any woman, and she believed it to have been written by Raymond Ashton!

He did not realise how long he sat there without speaking till Esther spoke to him again. There was a little anxious note in her voice.

“I’m afraid I’ve bored you horribly with all this. I know it’s no interest to you, but I felt that I must tell somebody.”

Micky roused himself with an effort.

“It’s of great interest to me,” he said. “And you mustn’t ever say a thing like that again. We’re going to be friends, and real friends are always interested in everything that concerns the other. I’m more glad than I can say that you’re happy. I only hope it’s going to last for ever.”

Perhaps there was a dubious note in his voice, for an anxious gleam crept into the girl’s eyes.

“You sound as if you don’t think that it will,” she said quickly.

Micky made a hurried disclaimer.

“I do think so, of course I do! You deserve all the happiness you can get, and whoever the man is, if he doesn’t make you happy–––”

He stopped, with frowning memory of Ashton and their parting only last night.

He hoped in his heart that they would never meet again; if they did, he realised that there would be quite a few nasty things he would feel called upon to say to him.

The waitress brought the bill at that moment and put an end to further conversation, for which he was thankful. He realised that he was getting rather out of his 40 depth. He breathed more freely when they were safely out in the street.

“And where is the new boarding-house?” he asked presently. He wanted to change the subject; every moment he was afraid that he would say something to give himself away. He supposed he had behaved like an impetuous fool. He ought never to have posted that letter––ought never to have opened Ashton’s; and yet––if he had not done so.... He looked down at the girl beside him, and wondered grimly how she would have felt if he had allowed that callous farewell to reach her.

“It’s quite close to where we are now,” she told him. “It’s rather more expensive than the last one, but it’s well worth the extra money, and”––she glanced up at him smilingly––“I’m better off to-day than I was yesterday,” she explained. “And when I go back to work again–––”

“Are you going back, then?” he asked quickly.

“Of course I am. I must do something, and they will take me back at Eldred’s, I know–––”

“Eldred’s!” Micky frowned. “That’s the petticoat shop, isn’t it?”

She laughed.

“Yes; how did you know?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve seen the place lots of times. A girl I know buys all her–––” He stopped. “Do you want to go back there?” he asked.

“Not particularly, but it’s easier than looking for a fresh place, and I know they will take me. I’m in the workroom, and it’s not really such a hard life.”

Micky did some rapid thinking; it was surprising how easily his brain had taken to hard work during the last twenty-four hours.

“Why don’t you get a job as a companion to a nice old lady or somebody?” he suggested vaguely.

She laughed again.

“It doesn’t sound a bit attractive,” she said frankly. 41 “I think you need an awful lot of patience. It’s very kind of you to be interested, but I think I shall go back to Eldred’s, for a time, at least.”

Micky did not like the idea at all, but he let the subject drop.

“Are you going back to the Brixton Road?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh no; I paid them before I left this afternoon, so I shall go straight to the new place.”

“I should like to walk there with you, if I may,” said Micky.

“Of course you may.”

“And when shall I see you again?” he asked. “You’re not going to vanish for days, are you? I’ve got no end of time to kill, and–––”

“But I haven’t,” she reminded him. “At least, I shan’t have when I start work. But I should like to see you again,” she added kindly.

“Thank you,” said Micky with faint sarcasm.

He felt vaguely disappointed with the whole afternoon. She was holding him so decidedly at arm’s length. He supposed it was that infernal fellow Ashton that stood between them. There was a sort of irony, too, in the fact that he himself had by his own action established him more firmly than ever in this girl’s affections.

And the fellow was not worth a thought! That was the rotten part of it. As he looked at her he felt strongly tempted to blurt out the truth; to tell her that it was he who wrote that letter––to undeceive her once and for all.

But the thing was manifestly impossible. She would probably think it an abominable thing to have opened Ashton’s letter; she would probably be furious if he let her know that the money she had received had come from him. Whichever way he turned he seemed to be in a corner.

They had reached the new boarding-house now, and Micky was relieved to see that it was a decided improvement on the one in the Brixton Road.

The windows were not boxed up, and the steps and the bell were clean. It was on the sunny side of the road, too, and had an air of cheerfulness about it.

“It’s much better than the other one, isn’t it?” Esther asked.

“Streets better,” he assured her. “I shouldn’t mind living here myself....” He waited, but she made no comment, and he felt rather snubbed.

There was a little silence.

“Don’t you like the place where you are living now?” she asked after a moment. “Don’t they make you comfortable there?”

“Oh, it’s comfortable enough,” said Micky. He wondered if he looked as guilty as he felt. “But I don’t believe in sticking on anywhere too long. A change is good for every one. I shall be shifting out some day soon, I expect.”

There was a little silence.

“I shall see you again soon,” he said. “And if there is anything I can do for you–––”

“Thank you, but there isn’t.” She spoke quite kindly, but Micky had the uncomfortable sort of feeling that her thoughts were elsewhere. He waited a moment, then held out his hand.

“Well, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, and thank you for my tea.”

She nodded and smiled and turned away from him.

There was nothing else for Micky to do but to go; he raised his hat and walked off disconsolately.