Outside in the road Micky suddenly started up the engine of his car. The dull throb, throb, came faintly to Esther as she sat there as motionless as if she had been carved in stone.

The little vibrant noise sounded like the beating of some one’s heart, she thought dully; she found herself listening to it subconsciously.

The two men behind her had moved out to the doorway; she could still hear them talking and laughing together. Something within her urged her to get up and follow them to tell them that she had heard what they said, to tell them that it was all a lie––a shameful lie. But she could not move.

She told herself that if she kept quite still for a few moments she would wake and find that she had just dreamed it all. She stared hard into the glowing fire, trying to believe that it was all part of her dream, that it was not real warmth which she felt on her face at all, that those leaping flames were only pictures of her imagination, that even if she thrust her hand into them they would not burn her, but would just melt away into the silence around like phantoms.

The phantom lover! June’s half-mocking words beat dully against her brain. June had always hated Raymond; she would be glad if this thing were true.

She suddenly realised that she was shivering in every limb. With an effort she dragged her chair closer to the fire. She put out her hands to the flames....

“Good heavens! what are you doing?” said Micky’s voice at her shoulder. She had not heard him come into the room; it was only when he bent and caught her 214 hand back from the flames that she realised what she had been going to do. She looked up at him with a sick smile.

“I thought it wouldn’t burn,” she said stupidly.

A flash of alarm crept into his eyes; she looked so white.

He kept her hand in his holding it firmly.

“What’s the matter?” he asked gently.

There was something so kind in his voice that for a moment she felt as if she would have given her soul to have been able to lean her head against his shoulder and sob out the truth; all she had just heard and all the miserable hope and fear that had tortured her for the past few weeks.

“What is it?” Micky said again anxiously.

She dragged her hand free of his; she remembered that he, too, had hated Raymond, that he, too, would be glad when he knew of this nightmare that had suddenly swooped down upon her.

She rose to her feet, holding fast to the chair-back to steady herself.

“There isn’t anything the matter; but I should like to go home––I’m tired, that’s all; I’m only tired.”

She moved away to the door. The cold air beating on her face gave her a grip of herself again. She stood for a moment looking down the deserted street, her hands clenched.

It was only for a little while, just until they got back to Enmore, that she had got to keep up appearances, and then––then....

A sudden wave of tragedy swept through her soul; oh, it could not be true! It was some other man of whom they had been speaking, some other Raymond!

She heard Micky laughing with the landlady as he paid for the coffee and buns, and she felt that she hated him for not guessing how she suffered. She walked down to where the little car stood waiting. If only he would be quick and take her back; she could do nothing till 215 she got back to Enmore, and each moment was so precious.

It seemed an eternity until Micky joined her. He avoided looking at her, though he bent and wrapped the rug carefully over her knees before he took his seat.

The other car with its two occupants had vanished down the road some minutes since; only a small cloud of grey dust on the horizon showed which way they had gone.

Micky drove back faster than he had come. Once or twice he looked down at Esther with an anxious pucker between his eyes.

What had happened in those few minutes to make this sudden change? he wondered.

She had been happy and smiling enough this morning; now all that he could see of her face, half hidden in the big upstand collar of the coat he had given her, were two piteous blue eyes staring steadily ahead of her down the road.

They had gone some miles almost silently when he felt that he could bear it no longer. He stopped the car almost savagely and turned in his seat.

“What’s the matter? What have I done now?” he asked roughly. “You weren’t like this when we came out. If I’ve done anything to annoy you....”

She forced herself to laugh. It would be the last straw if she broke down now.

“How absurd!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “Nothing is the matter. I’m tired, that’s all; I shall be glad to get home.”

He was not satisfied.

“You’re not telling me the truth,” he said. His mind searched anxiously back to the short time they had stayed in the inn. What could have happened? They had seen nobody there except the two men with the racing car.

“Those two fellows who came in––they didn’t annoy you, or anything like that, when I was out of the room?”

She shook her head.

“Of course not; they never spoke to me.”

“If you won’t tell me what I’ve done, how can I hope to put things right?” he said.

It was always like this, he told himself savagely; one little step onward and a dozen back. He did not speak again till they got home.

Esther got out of the car without waiting for him, and went on into the house.

After a moment Micky followed.

Esther was in the hall; she turned to him impatiently.

“Every one is out,” she said. “Miss Dearling and June are both out.”

There was a sort of strain in her voice which Micky could not understand. She looked as if she had had some bad shock, and yet what could have happened? He had not left her for more than a few minutes.

“Very well, I won’t wait,” he said formally. He spoke curtly; he felt sore enough; he raised his hat stiffly and turned away.

He looked back once at the little house. He thought perhaps Esther might be standing at the door in case he should turn, but the door was shut, and it was impossible for him to guess that upstairs in the room over the porch Esther had shut and locked the door and was pacing up and down the room, her hands pressed hard against her eyes, sobbing––great tearless sobs that seemed to rend her very heart.

“It’s not true––it’s not true,” she said over and over again under her breath. “It’s not true––it’s not true....”

The striking of a church clock in the village seemed to rouse her. June would be back soon, and Miss Dearling.

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief; they felt hot and burning. She looked at herself anxiously in the little mirror––such a white face; she turned away impatiently.

Twelve o’clock; there was a train up to town at half-past, she knew. The confusion in her brain seemed to have passed all at once; she felt quite calm and clear.

She would go to Paris––she would see Raymond, and hear from his own lips what a lie it was. She ought to have gone before. She had been a fool to listen to Micky; of course he would not wish her to go.

She put a few things into a bag. She took the last letter she had had from Raymond, and kissed it before thrusting it back into her dress; she scribbled a pencil note to June and fastened it to the pincushion.

With the little suit-case in her hand she went downstairs and out into the street.

There was nobody about, and she almost ran to the station. The porter who had witnessed her meeting yesterday with Micky stared at her wonderingly.

The London train was due now, he told her. She’d have to hurry.... She was gone before he finished his slow speech.

She found an empty carriage and got in, sitting as far away from the door as possible in case any one should come along the platform and recognize her. It was only when the train started away that she leaned back and closed her eyes.

“I am going to Paris; I can’t live without him any longer. Please don’t worry.” Over and over she found herself repeating these words in her brain. She wondered where she had heard them and what they really meant.

“I am going to Paris; I can’t live without him any longer.”

They were true anyway. She was going to Paris because she felt she could no longer live without Raymond.

She opened her eyes with a little gasp; they were her own words. She remembered that she had written them in the note she had left on the pincushion for June.

Poor June! She would be angry. And Micky.... A little throb touched her heart. She had not been very 218 kind to Micky. She hoped he would soon forget her. Her eyes closed again.

How long did it take to get to Paris? She had not the least idea. She had not got much money with her; she tried to remember how much, but somehow her brain refused to act; she took out her purse and tipped its contents into her lap. She started to count it, but after a moment she gave it up with a helpless feeling and put it all back again.

“Tubby Clare’s little widow....” Who was Tubby Clare? she wondered. She laughed foolishly. What a name!

But he had left his widow a great deal of money, and money was everything nowadays. Nobody could be happy without money; Raymond had told her that months ago; a man with money has the whole world at his feet, so he had said.

She thought of Micky––he was one of the richest men in London, and yet he was not happy. She had never thought that he looked happy; she wondered if it was really because he loved her.

She wished she could stop thinking. She was so tired, she wanted to sleep; but the wheel of thought went on and on in her brain.

The miles seemed to crawl by. Soon the fields and open country were left behind; the houses were closer together; presently they crowded one another, almost jostling each other out of the way, it seemed.

What an ugly place London was. She sat up with a little shiver. Strange how cold she felt, and yet her head was burning hot.

Would this journey never end? Surely they had been travelling for days and days already.

The train stopped with a jerk.

“Paddington ... all change––all change....”

Esther stumbled to her feet.