Looking back to that night at the theatre it always seemed to June Mason that she had been most extraordinarily blind in not seeing before that it was Esther for whom Micky Mellowes cared.

One glance at his face as he lifted the girl in his arms told her more than any words would have done; there was a sort of indescribable rage and pain in his eyes as he looked down at the white face lying against his shoulder.

People gathered about them, curious and sympathetic. June heard some one say that it had been so “deuced hot in the theatre, no wonder people fainted,” but she knew all the time that it was nothing to do with the heat; she stooped mechanically and picked up Esther’s gloves which had fallen from her nerveless hand before she followed Micky back into the foyer, where he laid Esther down on one of the long velvet lounges.

Afterwards she realised that the sudden discovery that Micky loved her friend had been something of a shock to her, that she had even been faintly jealous; she did not want to marry him herself, and yet they had been such good friends, it gave her an odd little pain to think that there was somebody else whom he placed a long way ahead of her in his heart.

Most of the people had gone, one or two of the theatre attendants lingered; it seemed a long time before Esther opened her eyes. She lay for a moment, looking vaguely about her, then her eyes came back to Micky, who was bending over her, his face scarcely less white than her own.

She made an effort to lift herself from his arm; then quite suddenly she burst into tears.

The little sound of sobbing broke the spell that seemed, 176 to have held June; she went down on her knees beside her, both arms round the slender, shaking figure.

Micky had risen to his feet. June glanced up at him.

“Go and find the taxi and leave her to me,” she said sharply. The look of suffering in his face hurt her. Micky went out into the cold night bareheaded. He hardly knew what he was doing. He stood for some minutes on the path forgetting why he had come out at all, before some one, jostling against him, brought him back to a sense of time and place.

He went down the road to look for a taxi. When he came back Esther was sitting up, wrapped in her cloak. She was not crying now, but she looked like a child who wants to cry but is determined not to.

June was standing beside her.

“We’re quite ready,” she said. She kept an arm about Esther, and Micky followed them silently.

He saw them into the cab, but did not follow. June asked a sharp question: “Aren’t you coming?”

“No––at least, not if you can manage without me.” His voice sounded unnerved; he looked away from June to where Esther was huddled into a corner beside her, and suddenly, as if urged by an impulse he could not control, he leaned forward, groped for her hand in the darkness, and, bending, kissed it passionately.

A moment later he had stepped back and shut the door.

He stood looking after the cab till it vanished round a corner, then he went back to the theatre for his hat and coat, and set off again down the road.

He was not conscious of any real emotion; but he walked swiftly as a man does who has a set purpose, and he did not stop till he found himself outside the Ashtons’ house.

It was not far off midnight, but lights burned in many of the windows, and after a swift glance at the face of the house he went up the steps and rang the bell.

It was some moments before the door was opened by 177 a mildly amazed-looking servant; Micky asked for Mr. Ashton.

“My name is Mellowes,” he said, as she obviously hesitated. “If you tell him my name he will see me. I know he is in, I saw him at the Comedy Theatre to-night.”

He stepped past the girl into the hall, and after a slightly scared glance at him she shut the door and departed upstairs.

A moment later Micky heard Ashton’s voice.

“You old night-bird! What an ungodly hour to call on any one! I was just going to bed; come in.”

He spoke easily, but there was a slightly anxious look in his eyes; he led the way into the library.

The fire was nearly out there and the room felt chilly; he shivered, and, stooping, tried to rake the cinders into a blaze.

Micky watched him silently; after a moment Ashton turned.

“Lord, man! what’s the matter? You look as cheerful as Doomsday.”

Micky was standing stiffly against the table.

“I saw you in the theatre to-night,” he began without preamble. “I was with Miss Shepstone, and she saw you, too––at least she believes it was you, and I am going to tell her that she was mistaken. How soon can you get out of town and back to Paris?”

Ashton stared; the colour had rushed to his face; after a moment his eyes fell.

“I don’t know what the devil you’re driving at,” he said irritably. “I suppose I can come to London without asking you first, can’t I? And, as for Lallie”––he grinned nervously––“well, you know as well as I do that that’s all been off for weeks.”

Micky stood immovable.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said flintily. “How soon can you get out of London?”

Ashton swore under his breath.

“I’m dashed if I know what you’re driving at,” he said sulkily. “If you like to take Lallie to theatres, that’s your business; she’s a nice little girl, I admit, but–––”

Micky took a step forward.

“If you want to make me forget that this is your mother’s house, you’re going the right way to do it,” he said between his teeth. “And I don’t want any of your bluff. Miss Shepstone thinks she saw you at the Comedy to-night; she’ll probably write to you or try to see you in the morning, and you’ve got to be out of London by then––do you hear?”

Ashton laughed; he shrugged his shoulders.

“Must?” he said nastily. “How long have you been Lallie’s champion?... Oh, all right, all right,” he broke off hurriedly, as he saw the ugly light in Micky’s eyes. “But it’s a bit thick, you know,” he resumed injuredly. “I’ve done with her; you know that. You sent my letter on to her yourself. It’s absurd if I can’t come back home for a few days in case she should see me and get upset. I’m sorry if she’s still fond of me, but, dash it all–––”

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Micky again.

He was controlling himself with a mighty effort, but the veins stood out like cords on his forehead and his hands were clenched.

The two men looked at one another, and it was Ashton’s eyes that fell.

“If you’re going to bullyrag me....” he began blusteringly, “I may as well tell you that I’m not going back to Paris till I please, and–––”

“Very well,” said Micky. He turned on his heel.

Raymond watched him cross the room anxiously. When he reached the door he called to him––

“Micky! What the devil are you going to do?”

And Micky answered without turning––

“I’m going to tell Mrs. Clare the way you’ve treated Miss Shepstone, and if she’s half the decent sort I think she is she’ll throw you overboard as you’ve thrown scores of others....”

Ashton followed and clutched his arm. “Come back; don’t be such a firebrand! I’ll go––I’ll clear out by the first train to-morrow.... I’m sorry if Esther was upset, but....”

Micky cut him short. “The first train leaves Victoria at 9.40; I’ll be there to see you off.”

Ashton scowled. “It’s a nice way to treat a friend,” he grumbled. “If there’s really anything up with Lallie ...”

Micky stood like a statue.

“It’s decent of you to take her out,” Ashton went on uneasily. “I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure. She’s never had much of a time. If I’d had any money....”

Micky broke out then. “Oh, hold your infernal tongue,” he said furiously.

He walked out of the room, shutting the door hard behind him. He passed the astonished maid in the hall and let himself out into the night. The blood was pounding in his veins, he felt in actual need of physical violence; he did not know how he had managed to keep his hands off Raymond. He walked on at a furious pace; presently he laughed with a sort of self-pity.

What was the good of what he had done after all? At best he had only succeeded in staving off the inevitable for a little while; Esther would have to know sooner or later.

Such wasted love it was! All for a man who was not worth one thought, or even a tear!

When he got back to his rooms he told Driver to call him early, as he was going to see somebody off by train. He was at Victoria long before Ashton; the greeting between the two men was constrained.

“I was going back to-day, anyway,” Ashton said 180 jauntily. “I’m going to be married the day after to-morrow–––” He looked at Micky with triumphant eyes. “To Mrs. Clare,” he added.

---

When Micky got back to his rooms, Driver met him; Driver with a spark of unwonted animation in his dull eyes, and who closed the sitting-room door mysteriously behind him as he came forward.

“If you please, sir––there is a lady to see you.”

“A lady!” said Micky blankly; then he laughed. “Rubbish! You’re dreaming, man.”

“No sir,” said Driver stolidly.

Micky stared at him for a moment, then he passed him, and threw open the door of the sitting-room.

It was Esther who rose from a chair by the fire as he entered.

For an instant Micky was unable to believe his own eyes, then he shut the door and took a step forward.

“You!” he said. “I never thought....”

She broke in agitatedly.

“Oh, I know; I suppose I shouldn’t have come; I don’t know what June would say if she knew; but––but there wasn’t anybody else I could come to, and you said ... you said....” She flushed up nervously. “Oh, you did say you would be a friend to me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Micky.

He might have reminded her that she had declined his friendship; he might have reminded her of all the not very kind things which she had said to him, but it was such happiness to see her here in his room that he was in no mood to be critical.

“Do sit down ... there’s no hurry, is there?” He wanted to put her at her ease; he did not like to see the nervous agitation in her face; but she shook her head.

“I’m not going to stay, only ... only I....” Her voice changed suddenly. “Oh, Mr. Mellowes, will you tell me how I can get to Paris?”

“Paris!” Micky echoed the word helplessly. “Paris!” he said again. For the moment he stared at her with blank eyes.

She rushed on impetuously.

“I have a friend there––some one I ... some one I ... oh, it’s the man I’m engaged to, and I want to see him––I must see him! I’ve got the money to get there. I hope you don’t think I was going to ask you to lend me that....” she added in distress.

“Miss Shepstone ... I––I....” Micky was horribly upset. “I never thought anything of the sort. And––and even if you were going to ask me, you know quite well that anything I have, anything....”

She stopped him hurriedly.

“Oh, I know, it’s very kind of you.” Her blue eyes sought his face with a sort of abasement. “I don’t think I’ve ever really realised how kind you’ve been to me,” she said. “But ... but I’ve been so worried and unhappy ... I––I do hope you’ll forgive me if I was rude or unkind.”

Micky did not answer; so it had come at last, the explanations which he had always dreaded; he racked his brains in vain to think of a way out of it––to make out the best story he could.

She seemed to realise his perturbation, she came a step nearer to him.

“Mr. Mellowes,” she said earnestly, “will you tell me something?”

“Yes,” said Micky inaudibly, but he did not look at her.

She looked up at him, trying to see his face before she asked her question.

“Do you––do you know who the man is that I am going to marry?”

In the silence that followed her timid question, Micky 182 felt that he lived through years. Should he tell her the truth, or should he not? Ashton was out of London by this time; in another forty-eight hours he would be married to another woman; he raised his head with a sort of desperation. “No,” he said.

He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that at least it was substantially the truth; she was not going to marry Ashton––she never could marry him now.

He heard the sigh of relief she gave.

“I’m glad,” she said. “Somehow, lately, I have thought that you did know. Mr. Mellowes ... last night ... I thought I saw him in the theatre last night. I know now that I was mistaken.” She paused a moment and looked past him to the window and the cold grey street outside. “I couldn’t have seen him,” she said again, as if to convince herself rather than him. “Because he is in Paris––I found out this morning that he is still in Paris.”

“Yes,” said Micky. His voice sounded choked. “And so––so you want to go out there to him, is that it?”

Her face brightened.

“Yes. I should have told June only––only she isn’t very sympathetic. You see”––she smiled faintly––“she hates my ‘phantom lover,’ as she calls him, and so––so I know she would only do her best to keep me from going to him; but you–––”

“I am afraid,” said Micky quietly, “that I shall try and do the same thing.”

He turned and looked at her squarely.

“You’ve never been to Paris,” he said, “and probably you can’t speak a word of French. You’ve probably never travelled any distance alone. Miss Shepstone, it’s impossible for you to go. I am only advising you for your own good. Why not write to––to––your fiancÉ and ask him to make arrangements for you?”

He broke off helplessly. The poor little letter in which she had already done so lay in his pocket at that moment.

It turned him sick to think of the tissue of lies and deceit his own actions were forcing upon him.

“I––I have asked him,” she said almost in a whisper, “but he said he couldn’t have me––then! But that’s quite a long time ago,” she added hopefully. “And I thought if he saw me––if I got there and surprised him–––”

Micky turned away. He could imagine so well what would happen if indeed she found Ashton. He walked over to the window and stood looking into the street with unseeing eyes.

“Have a little patience,” he said presently. “Take my advice and stay here. If he––if he can, he will send for you, I am sure.” She looked up quickly, a spark of anger in her eyes.

“You sound as if you think that will never be,” she said sharply.

Micky met her gaze unflinchingly.

“I don’t think anything of the sort. I know––I know if I were in his place, whoever he is––I should be counting the moments till I could ... could have you with me.” He smothered the momentary seriousness of his words with a little laugh. “And now, after that pretty compliment, aren’t you going to reward me by taking my most excellent advice?”

The ghost of a smile crossed her face.

“I wanted you to say something so different,” she told him wistfully.

“I know––but I’m not going to. Any one would advise you as I have. It isn’t ... it isn’t that I’m prejudiced, or anything like that. I would give a great deal to see you happy. I hope you believe me.”

She sat twisting her hands together nervously. After a moment she looked up at him.

“Thank you,” she said.

She rose and began to pull on her gloves.

“I hope you don’t think it’s very dreadful of me to 184 have come,” she said deprecatingly. “But ... but this morning, somehow, I felt I must have someone to talk to––some one to advise me....”

“I am honoured that you came,” said Micky gravely. Her eyes fell before his.

“And––and you won’t tell June?” she appealed.

He smiled rather sadly.

“I am not likely ever to tell any one,” he said.

“No, I know. Mr. Mellowes”––she held out her hand to him suddenly, her fair face flushing––“I should like to take back something I said to you one day. Perhaps you don’t remember, but I do, and lately––especially since last night, when you were so kind––I’ve felt that I wasn’t just to you; and so ... if you will forgive me, I should like to be friends with you after all.”

She was crimson by the time she had finished, but Micky took her hand without answering, held it for a moment, then let it go.

“I suppose I mustn’t offer you anything?” he said with forced lightness. “No coffee––or tea? It’s cold out this morning. If you would care for anything, my man would bring it at once.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“I don’t want anything, thank you.” She looked round at Micky’s luxuriously furnished room. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked him.

He smiled. “Do you like it? I am glad.”

“I think it’s lovely.” She looked up at him. “I seem to have been climbing a ladder lately,” she said. “Since I left that awful place in the Brixton Road––where I am now is heaps better than that was, but this–––”

Micky was silent. It trembled on his lips to say that everything he had in the world was hers if only she would take it, but he knew the utter futility of it. Money and possessions counted very little with her. She would not have minded the house in the Brixton Road at all with the man she loved.

He went downstairs with her.

“So we’re really friends now?” he said when he bade her good-bye. “And you’ll promise to let me advise you again when you’re not quite sure what you ought to do?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

She flushed nervously.

“It’s kind of you to be interested.” It seemed strange to her that after all that had happened they should have so easily got back to their old footing of friendliness. But Micky was not at all happy. When she had gone he stood for a long time at the window staring moodily out.

When Driver brought lunch, he found Micky poring over a Bradshaw; he spoke to the man with elaborate carelessness.

“You’ll have to take another trip to Paris––to-morrow will do.”

“Yes sir.” Driver smoothed a crease in the cloth. “To post another letter, sir?” he asked expressionlessly.

Micky looked up sharply, but Driver met his eyes innocently.

Micky coloured.

“No; it isn’t a letter this time,” he said. “It’s to buy a fur coat.”

---