Esther seemed arrested by the emotion in Micky’s voice.

She stood looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, then suddenly she broke out again––

“I don’t know what you mean. I’ll never forgive June if she sent you after me. I’m going to Paris. I’m not a child to be followed and looked after like this.... Let me go.”

Micky released her arm at once. When he spoke his voice was quiet and rather stern.

“Please don’t make a scene. I have followed you for your own sake. I know I can’t stop you from going to Paris. I’m not going to try. All I do ask you is that you will let me speak to you. If what I have to say is useless, I give you my word of honour that I will leave you here and let you go on to Paris alone.”

She looked at him with stormy eyes.

“I don’t believe it––it isn’t the first time you’ve lied to me....” she broke off breathlessly. Micky turned pale, but he answered evenly enough––

“You’re quite justified in saying that; I’m not going to try and deny it. But we can’t stand here all night––people are beginning to stare at us....”

“I don’t care–––” but she dropped her voice a little, and when Micky made a slight movement forward she followed.

It was cold on the quay––there was a fresh wind blowing, and Esther shivered.

“There’s a restaurant place here,” Micky said. “I want a meal if you don’t; I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

He found a table and ordered a meal, but he knew he should not be able to eat a thing.

“I don’t want anything to eat,” Esther said. She sat sideways in her chair away from the table; there was a pitiable look of strain in her face; she still gripped her suit-case tightly. When Micky asked her to be allowed to put it down for her she turned on him almost fiercely.

“Leave me alone––oh, leave me alone!”

The French garcon eyed them both interestedly. Any one far less keen of perception than he was could have seen that there was tragedy of some kind between this pretty, frail-looking girl and the tall man in the big coat.

“You said you were hungry, but you’re not eating anything,” Esther broke out irritably. “How much longer are you going to make me sit here? I want to catch a train to Paris to-night.”

“There are no trains, except slow ones,” Micky told her; “the express has gone half an hour ago. I can find you rooms in a hotel close by for the night....” His eyes met hers across the table, and he broke out, “Esther, for God’s sake let me explain things to you. You’ve all your life before you; to-morrow, if you wish it, I’ll go away and never see you again. But I can’t let you go now without telling you the truth. I ought to have told you before––it was for your own sake I tried to keep it back....”

Her grey eyes searched his face disbelievingly.

“If you’ve anything to say against Mr. Ashton,” she said, “I refuse to listen. I shouldn’t believe anything you say, for one thing. Why, you don’t even know his name––unless June has told you,” she added breathlessly.

“June has told me nothing, but I know, all the same. I knew the first night I ever met you––when I left you and went back to my rooms, he was there waiting for me....”

She half turned, leaning across the table, and her eyes were like fire.

“He was there––who was there?” she asked shrilly.

“Ashton––Raymond Ashton,” Micky answered.

There was a tragic silence, then Esther rose to her feet; she stood looking dazedly round her in a helpless sort of way.

Micky called for the bill––without waiting for his change he followed Esther out into the darkness. She offered no resistance when he drew her hand through his arm. He did not know what on earth to do with her; if he took her to an hotel it would mean leaving her, and she would probably go away in the night. They went back to the station, and Micky found a waiting-room with a roaring fire; he dragged one of the uncomfortable wooden benches close to it and made Esther sit down; he closed the door and came back to her.

There was so much he wanted to say, and for the life of him he did not know how to begin. She sat there so silently; she seemed to have forgotten his presence altogether.

Micky looked at her, and suddenly he broke out––

“Esther, speak to me––say something––for heaven’s sake–––”

She moved in a curiously heavy sort of way, as if it were an effort; she raised her eyes to his agitated face.

“This morning––was it only this morning?––it seems so long ago.” She stopped for a moment, then went on again slowly. “When we were at that inn in the village––those men with the car––I heard them talking....” She stopped again.

“Yes,” said Micky.

She frowned as if his monosyllable had interrupted her train of thought. She went on presently––

“They were talking about Paris––and Raymond.” And now she raised her eyes. “If you say that it was true what I heard them say, I will kill you,” she said with sudden passion. “It’s a lie––just a lie to hurt me, to hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.” She stopped, 234 panting. “It’s a lie––say it’s a lie,” she drove the words at him.

Micky sat down beside her.

“If they said that Ashton had been married in Paris to Mrs. Clare it was the truth,” he said.

He marvelled at the steadiness of his voice. He felt sick with shame at the part he was having to play. He went on incoherently––

“I knew it before you ever went to Enmore––it was in the London papers. I was afraid you would see it. I persuaded June to get you down into the country. I suppose I was a fool. I ought to have known it was only putting things off.”

He looked at her and quickly away again.

“Forget him, Esther, for God’s sake. He never cared for you; he isn’t worth a thought.”

She rose to her feet, pushing the hair back from her face as if she were distraught.

“How dare you say such things to me?” she said in an odd, choked voice. “You always hated him––you and June. Do you think I’m going to believe you? Do you think I could believe you for a moment when I have his letters––when he has shown me in so many ways how he cares?... I don’t care what you say––I don’t care if the whole world were to tell me it was true––I’ll never believe it till he tells me himself....” Her breath came gaspingly; she looked at Micky’s white face with passionate hatred in her eyes.

“How do I know it isn’t all a made-up story?” she asked him hoarsely.

She hardly knew what she was saying; she leaned her arms on the mantelshelf and hid her face in them.

Micky let her alone; he got up and began pacing up and down the room.

He deserved everything she had said; it was all his fault that she had got this to bear. With the best intentions in the world he had proved himself a blundering fool.

Esther raised her head; she had not shed a tear, but her face was white and desolate.

She walked past him to the door.

“I’m going on to Paris to-night,” she said. “Nothing you can say will stop me––nothing.”

“Very well, then I will come with you.”

She did not answer; she fumbled helplessly with the door handle. Micky came forward to open it for her, and their hands touched. A little flame of red rushed to his face; he put his shoulders to the door.

“You can’t go like this,” he said stammering. “How can I let you go like this? Whatever I’ve done, I haven’t deserved that you should think as badly of me as you do. It was because I cared for you so much––I tried to save you pain ... perhaps it isn’t any excuse, but it’s the truth.... I’d give my very soul if I could undo what’s gone, if I could save you from this.”

She was not looking at him, but the cold contempt in her face stung him.

“You may despise me,” he broke out again jaggedly. “But it’s the truth I’ve told you.... Ashton never cared for you; that night at my rooms....” He stopped, he did not want to tell her, but somehow there was a compelling force within him that drove the words to his lips.

“He told me he’d had to break with you––that he was going away from London because of you. He said he must marry a woman with money––it’s the truth, if I never speak again. He never cared for you, Esther––he was never fit to kiss the ground you walk on. He wanted to be rid of you––he–––”

Micky stopped; Esther had given a little strangled cry, half-sob, half-moan, like some animal in mortal pain; for the moment she saw the world red; hardly knowing what she did, she lifted her hand and struck Micky across his white face.

“Oh, you liar––you liar,” she said. The words were a hoarse whisper, her voice was almost gone.

She fell away from him, shaking in every limb; she dropped into a chair hiding her face.

Micky stood like a man turned to stone. She had not hurt him physically, though there was a red flush where she had struck him, but he felt as if the blow had fallen on his aching heart and his love for her.

It seemed a long time before either of them moved or spoke, then Esther dragged herself to her feet.

“Please let me pass,” she said in a whisper, and Micky stood aside without a word.

He followed her out and inquired for a train; there was a slow one at ten-fifty they told him. He put Esther into a carriage and got a rug for her and a cushion. He knew she had had nothing to eat, and he ordered a basket to be made up at the refreshment-room. When he came back she was sitting in a corner with her eyes closed. She had taken off her hat, and her golden hair was tumbled about her face. She took no notice when he put the rug over her; she did not even open her eyes when the train started.

Micky sat down in the opposite corner. He felt more tired than he had ever done in all his life, and yet he knew that he could not sleep; his brain seemed as if it would never rest again. He sat with face averted from the girl in the corner, looking out into the darkness.

It seemed strange to realise that he had made this same journey dozens of times before. He felt that it was all strange and distasteful to him. The chattering voices of the French porters and the whistle of the engines sounded new and quaint as if he had never heard them before. It seemed an eternity before the train started slowly away.

He leaned back and closed his eyes; his head was splitting, and he was cold and hungry.

He must have dozed for a few minutes, for he was roused by a little choking sound of sobbing. He opened his eyes––he was awake at once––he looked across at Esther. She was lying huddled up, with her face turned 237 against the dirty cushions of the carriage, sobbing her heart out.

Micky looked at her in miserable indecision. Then he got up impulsively, and sat down opposite to where Esther was huddled.

He stretched out his hand and took hers.

“Don’t cry––don’t; I can’t bear it,” he said hoarsely. He raised her hand to his lips. She had taken off her gloves and her fingers felt like ice. He chafed them gently between his own. She still wore the cheap little ring which Ashton had given her months ago.

She let her hand lie passively in his. Perhaps she was too miserable to remember that it was Micky, and only realised that there was something kind and comforting in his touch. Presently her sobs quieted. She wiped the tears from her face and brushed back her disordered hair.

Micky got up and took down the supper basket he had managed to get at the station. There was a small thermos of hot coffee. He poured some out and made her drink it. If he had expected her to refuse he was agreeably disappointed. She obeyed apathetically; she even ate some sandwiches.

Micky was ravenous himself, but he would not touch a thing till she had finished.

“You’d be much more comfortable if you put your feet up on the seat and tried to sleep,” he said presently. “You can have my coat as well as the rug. Your hands are like ice.”

He took off his coat as he spoke and laid it over her.

“I’m afraid we’ve got a long journey yet,” he said ruefully. “If you could get some sleep.”

She turned her head away and closed her eyes.

She looked very young and appealing in the depressing light of the carriage.

Micky sat looking at her in silence. She cared so little for him that she had even forgotten her anger against him; nothing he could do or say really mattered 238 to her, she was not sufficiently interested in him to even trouble to hate him for long.

He wondered what June was thinking, and Miss Dearling! He wished from the depths of his soul that he had remembered to send those wires. There was his car, too––he had left that in the yard at Charing Cross––what the dickens would become of it?––not that it mattered much, he was too miserable to be seriously concerned about anything.

Some minutes passed, but Esther did not move. Micky spoke her name once softly––

“Esther....” But she did not answer; he leaned over and touched her hand, but she did not stir; in spite of what she had said she was asleep.

Micky gave a sigh of relief. He drew his coat and the rug more closely around her; he was very cold himself, but that did not trouble him; he finished the contents of the supper basket before he went back to his own corner.

The train rumbled on through the night; it dragged into many little stations and stopped jerkily, but Esther did not wake.

Once when she moved and the rug slipped, Micky rose and quietly replaced it. He was very tired himself, but his brain would not allow him to sleep; he felt as if he were living through years during these long hours.

He sat looking at Esther with wistful eyes. Why was it that people never fell in love with the right people? he asked himself vaguely. He could have made her so happy.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then dragged them open again. He must not go to sleep, whatever happened. He sat up stiffly.

Presently he lifted a corner of the blind. The sky looked a little lighter, as if dawn were not far away. He looked at his watch. Nearly two!

A sudden impulse came to him to wake Esther and make her listen now to what he had to say. The time 239 was getting short, and there was so much to tell her and explain.

He rose and bent over her, but she did not move, and he went back again to his corner.

He let the window down a little way, hoping the cold night air would help to keep him awake. The minutes seemed to drag, though in reality only a quarter of an hour had passed when Esther woke with a little smothered cry.

Micky was on his feet in an instant.

“It’s all right––there’s nothing to be afraid of––you’ve been asleep.”

She rubbed her eyes childishly with her knuckles; she stared at him for a moment unrecognisingly, then, as memory returned, she shrank back into her corner.

Micky picked up the rug and coat that had slithered to the floor; he waited a few moments till he saw that she was quite awake before he spoke, then he said gently––

“I hope you feel better. We shall soon be in now. Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“We shall be into Paris very soon,” he said again; “and there is a great deal I want to say to you first. Will you listen to me if I try to explain?”

She met his eyes unflinchingly.

“There is only one man who can possibly explain anything to me,” she said then, “and he is not you.”

Micky lost his temper; he was cold and tired and hungry, and at that moment she seemed the most unreasonable of mortals.

“I shall not allow you to see Ashton, if you mean Ashton,” he said roughly. “The man isn’t fit for you to think about. He’s married, you know that ... Esther, for your own sake–––”

She had turned her face away and was looking out into the darkness; she seemed not to be listening.

Micky went on urgently.

“I blame myself. I always meant to tell you before things had gone as far as this. I shall never forgive myself for not having done so. I’ve behaved like a cad, but my only excuse is that I loved you; I wanted to spare you unnecessary pain–––” He was no longer stammering and self-conscious, his voice was firm and steady. “I suppose I was a fool to imagine that I could ever make you care for me; I suppose it was conceit that led me to think I could ever cut out this ... this phantom lover of yours–––” He laughed mirthlessly.

“Esther, let me take you back home; it’s no use seeing Ashton––it only means humiliation and pain for you.”

Her lips moved, but no words came.

“Let me take you home to June,” he went on. “She will tell you that what I say is only the truth. She knows him––she....”

She spoke then.

“She always hated him; it isn’t likely she would wish me to marry him.” She bit her lip. “Oh, it’s no use saying any more,” she broke out wildly after a moment. “I’m going to see him––I can’t bear it if I don’t see him––just once! I’ve got to hear the truth–––”

“I’ve told you the truth,” he repeated doggedly. “It’s no interest to me to try and prevent you from seeing him. I know I’ve done for whatever chance I had with you. Oh, for heaven’s sake believe that it’s only for your sake I want to take you back!”

She shook her head.

In her heart she found it impossible to believe him; she thought of the letters she had received from Raymond, the money––the presents––why even this coat she wore had come from him; she felt that she could laugh at this man opposite to her. A little smile curved her lips; a contemptuous smile it seemed to Micky.

For the first time the injustice of it all seemed to strike him; for him who had done his best she had nothing but dislike and contempt, but for the man who had left her with a brutal letter of farewell, who had thrown 241 her over because she had no money, she had endless faith and trust, and love!

He broke out in his agitation.

“I’ve tried to spare you––I’ve done my best, but you won’t let me ... I’ve kept back the truth, but now you’ll have to hear it if nothing else will keep you from him. He’s never given you a thought since he left London––he imagines that you’ve forgotten him. It was he you saw at the Comedy Theatre that night when June and I were with you. He didn’t even trouble to let you know that he was in London––that’s how he cares for you––this man you refuse to believe one word against ...” His eyes flamed as they met hers.

She was staring at him now; her face was white and incredulous.

“If you––if you think I’m going to believe that–––” she began, in a high, unnatural voice. She stopped; she seemed to realise all at once that he was speaking the truth. She leaned towards him. Her breath came in broken gasps.

“Those letters!” she said shrilly. “Whose letters? They were from him––they were from him––weren’t they from him?” she asked hoarsely.

“No,” said Micky doggedly.

Better to hurt her now, he told himself, than to let her go on to worse pain and humiliation.

There was a tragic silence; then she asked again, in a whisper––

“Then who––who wrote them?”

A wave of crimson flooded Micky’s white face. He dropped his head in his hands as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.

“I did,” he said brokenly.