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

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

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

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

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

When Monday morning came he packed his portmanteau before he left his room––there would be no letter for him, so he might as well clear out and go home without making a further fool of himself. There was not the least hope in his heart when he went to the bureau 134 and asked for letters; the reply came as it had done each morning: “Nothing for monsieur....”

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

“Any letters for Ashton?––I am expecting one for a friend of mine of that name....”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a great risk––but ...

“I’ll chance it,” said Mickey under his breath, and drew out the letter again.

“My Darling Boy,––You can never know how glad and happy I was to get your letter to-night and to know that I can really write to you at last. I have been so miserable during these weeks in spite of all your goodness––and you have been good. It makes me feel mean and ungrateful now when I remember how horrid I often was to you before you went away. When you come back I will make it all up to you, and show you how nice I really can be, because I do love you––I have never loved any one but you. Thank you so much for the money you have sent me––I was very much down on my luck when it came. They haven’t a vacancy for me just now at Eldred’s, or else they did not want me back, and I am going to try and find another berth. I am living in a new boarding-house, as you will see; it’s ever so much nicer than the Brixton Road, and I shall be able to stay on now you are so generously sending me money. I have made a nice friend 136 here, too, a girl named June Mason––she tells me that she knows your mother, and you, too!––I did not let her know how well I knew you, dear, as I thought perhaps you would rather I said nothing about it. She has a man friend who sometimes comes to see her––a Mr. Mellowes––she thinks the world of him, but I think he is detestable....”

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

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

With all my love for ever and ever, Lallie.

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

Then he moved slowly as if it cost him an effort. He was rather pale now, and there was a hard line round his mouth. So that was how she thought of him! Somehow he had not imagined how much it would hurt to read the fond words and to know all the time that they were written to another man. And to a man so unworthy! He thought of Ashton as he had seen him 137 three nights ago with Mrs. Clare; of his callous questioning about Esther; of his almost brutal remarks, and it made his blood boil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is not that I do not love you––I have never loved you better than at this moment––but....”

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