When Micky left Mrs. Ashton he raced off to meet Marie.

She was looking quite her prettiest, in dark furs with a bunch of violets in the breast of her coat, but Micky would not have noticed if she had been shabby, his thoughts were elsewhere. He did not even see that she wore the bracelet he had given her for a Christmas present, or remember that he had once told her violets were his favourite flowers.

He apologised breathlessly for being late.

“I had an appointment,” he explained. “Raymond’s mother; she wrote and asked me to call this afternoon.” He hesitated, then added, “Did you know that Raymond is going to be married? Oh, but, of course, you cannot know, as Mrs. Ashton only knew this morning.”

Marie’s dark eyes opened; like most women, she loved to hear of an engagement or marriage.

“Really?” she said. “At last!––not to––surely not to that little girl at Eldred’s?”

Micky flushed angrily. Did every one know about Esther? he asked himself savagely. He answered shortly that it was to Mrs. Clare, Tubby Clare’s little widow.

Marie looked amazed.

“But we all thought–––” she said, then stopped, remembering that Micky and Raymond had been great friends. “I hope he’ll be happy,” she said lamely.

Micky laughed shortly.

“I don’t,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to be.”

She made no comment.

There was an excited flush in her cheeks, and a nervous note in her voice when she spoke; it was like old times 146 to be here with him again, until she met his eyes across the little table, and then it seemed as if she were looking into the face of a stranger, a man who was like Micky––enough like him to hurt, and yet not Micky at all.

She aroused herself to amuse him. Micky had always told her she cheered him up in the old days, but this afternoon he answered her in monosyllables, and she saw with bitter mortification how often he looked at the clock. At last she was driven to remark on it.

“Micky, are you in a hurry to get away?”

She asked the question lightly, but there was a strained note in her voice.

Micky did not look at her.

“No––no, not at all,” he said hurriedly. “But I suppose we ought to be moving soon....” There was a little pause. “It’s been nice seeing you again,” he added with an effort.

She sat staring down at her plate. Her pretty colour had faded; she was very pale, and she bit her lip hard to hide its trembling.

Suddenly she looked up at him.

“Micky––may I ask you a question?...”

“A hundred if you like.”

She picked up a teaspoon and twisted it nervously. Micky watched her with apprehension; he knew what was coming, and his heart sank.

If only she would be content to leave things as they were; if only she would accept the friendship he was willing to give and close the book of the past for ever.

He did not understand that it was because she cared for him so much that at the risk of losing her self-respect and pride she must ask him for the truth, must know ...

He heard her catch her breath, then suddenly she spoke:

“Micky ... why was it? What have I done?”

There was a quiver in her voice that set him on edge; 147 he could not stand the sound of unhappiness in any woman’s voice, and he had once thought he loved Marie....

He answered without looking at her, realising that it was kinder to tell the truth out and have done with it.

“I meant to have written to you––I hope some day you will try and forgive me, but ... but....” He could not go on for the life of him, but he had said enough, and he knew that she understood.

“You mean ... you mean that there is some one else?” she asked with stiff lips.

“Yes.” He looked at her white, stricken face, and felt himself a brute.

It seemed an eternity before she could steady her voice enough to speak.

“Is it––is it some one I know?”

“No, dear,” said Micky very gently. “It isn’t any one you have ever seen–––”

She picked up her big muff suddenly and held it so that her face was hidden; the little word of endearment that had escaped Micky’s lips had almost broken her down. This was the end of all she had ever hoped for, and for the moment she could not choke the anguish in her heart.

The following silence seemed unending; then she looked round for her gloves, and put them on, buttoning them with shaking fingers.

“I am ready if you are,” she said. She did not look at him, but it felt like dying to walk beside him out of the shop and into the cold air and know that perhaps this was the last time they would ever be alone, he and she. Once her steps faltered a little, and Micky put out his hand to steady her, but she drew away from him.

“Please don’t,” she said in a whisper.

There was a taxi waiting at the roadside, and Micky called to the man. There was a slight cold drizzle of 148 rain falling as he held open the door. He would have followed but she stopped him. “I should like to go alone, if you don’t mind.”

He looked up, and for a moment he saw her face in the light of the taxi lamp; such a white, quivering face it was.

“Marie!...” said Micky in a choked voice, but she waved him away.

He stood there on the kerb till the taxi had whirled out of sight, and once again he asked himself desperately if it were all worth while, if he were not throwing away the real thing for a chimera.

There was probably a no more unhappy man in London at that moment than Micky Mellowes.