And so the dream had come true after all, and she and Raymond were together in Paris.

As she looked up into his handsome face it seemed to Esther that all the past hours of grief were as if they had never really existed; he was smiling down at her in the same old way; the very tone of his voice awoke forgotten memories in her heart; she felt as if a gnawing pain which had allowed her no rest had suddenly been lulled to sleep.

“I thought it must be you,” Raymond was saying nervously. “And yet I could not be sure. Somehow I never thought of you and Paris as being in any way compatible, and yet–––” He broke off; it had been on the tip of his tongue to say that she had never looked sweeter or more desirable.

His overwhelming conceit suddenly woke the wish in his heart to know if she still cared, or if she had forgotten him, and a little flush crossed his face and his eyes grew tender as they met the tragedy of hers; he looked hastily round.

“We can’t talk here. Will you come to a cafÉ? There is so much I should like to say to you. When did you come over? What are you doing here?”

They were walking slowly along, the man’s head bent ardently towards her.

He had once told Micky that this girl was the only woman he had ever loved, and perhaps it was right––as he accounted love.

He took her to a cafÉ––one where there would be nobody likely to recognise him; he ordered coffee and biscuits.

“Now we can talk undisturbed,” he said; he moved his chair closer to Esther’s––he laid his hand on hers.

She did not move or try to evade his touch; she just looked down at his hand for a moment and then up at the handsome face which had for so long meant all the world to her.

“I never thought we should meet again here of all places,” he said in his soft voice. “How long ago does it seem to you since we said good-bye?”

She could not answer, but the thought floated through her mind that they never had said good-bye, that he had just walked out of her life and stayed away until this moment, when fate had thrown them together.

“If you knew how often I have thought about you,” he said.

“Did you get my letter, Lallie? The one I wrote on New Year’s Eve––and the money? I sent you some money.”

A swift flush dyed her cheeks; she raised her eyes.

That had been his letter then, after all––Micky had lied to her; she caught her breath on a little gasp.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “Yes––yes, I got it––thank you.”

“I’ve often thought since that I might have written you a kinder letter,” he said after a moment. “But everything had gone wrong then––the mater cut up rough––and I was up to my eyes in debt. It was the best thing for both of us to put an end to it, don’t you think it was? You used to say that you wouldn’t mind being poor, but in the end you’d have hated it as much as I should.” He paused as if expecting her to speak, but she was plucking at the blue-and-white fringe of the tablecloth with nervous fingers.

What did he mean––that he might have written her a kinder letter––when she always remembered it as one of the dearest she had ever received?

He went on again––

“It hurt me more than you’ll ever know.” There was a sort of self-satisfaction in his voice. “It took me a long time to forget you, Lallie, and then, just as I was beginning, I saw you at the theatre––in the stalls ... with Mellowes.” His brows met above his handsome eyes. “Mellowes wasn’t long picking you up,” he added jealously.

Her lip quivered, but she did not raise her eyes.

“You saw me, too, didn’t you?” he persisted. “I know you did, because Mellowes came round afterwards and cursed me to all eternity.” He laughed. “I should have made a point of seeing you the next day if it hadn’t been for his confounded interference,” he went on. “He told me to get out of London and leave you alone.” He bent towards her a little. “What is Mellowes to you?” he asked her deliberately.

She raised her eyes now, and somehow it seemed as if, in the last few moments, the man she had known and loved had changed into a stranger––some one whom she had never seen before, whom she hoped never to see again.

She forced her lips to smile; she felt at that moment she would die rather than let him see how she was suffering, or guess how she had suffered in the past.

“He’s been kind to me,” she said voicelessly. “That’s all.”

Raymond made a little, inarticulate sound.

“He’s got me to thank for ever getting to know you,” he said. “I gave him your address and asked him to take you out a bit if he fancied it.... I asked him to be kind to you.”

The hands in her lap twitched convulsively.

“If I’d had one tenth of his beastly money,” Raymond said then savagely, “we shouldn’t be sitting here now as if we were strangers––as if ... Lallie––do you remember the good time we used to have–––”

“I remember everything.” He bent closer.

“I never cared for any woman in all my life but you. It’s cursed hard luck.” He sighed. “You know I’m married?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh yes!” The words came stiffly.

His eyes searched her white face jealously.

“You don’t seem to care. I’ve often wondered if you knew––and if you minded!” He sat staring before him, and there was a little smile in his eyes. “We do things in style now, I can tell you,” he said with sudden change of voice. “She’s as rich as you please, and she likes to spend her money.” Another silence.

“I hope you’ll be happy,” Esther said faintly.

Afterwards she wondered what made her say it, seeing that she did not care in the very least if he were happy or not; why should she care? This man was a stranger to her.

He laughed ruefully.

“Oh, I suppose we shall,” he said. “She’s not a bad sort, and she lets me alone....” He roused himself suddenly and bent closer to her. “Lallie––you’ll let me see you again. There’s no reason why we can’t be––friends––just because I’m married–––” He tried to take her hand, but now she repulsed him, though very gently.

“You’re not going to be a little prude?” he said in a whisper. “I can give you the time of your life if you’ll let me. I’ve plenty of money now–––”

“Your wife’s money,” said Esther with stiff lips.

He looked annoyed.

“If you like to put it that way––but she doesn’t mind––she’s too fond of me to mind how much I spend ... Lallie–––” She hated to hear that name, because once she had loved it.

She closed her eyes for a moment with a little sick shudder.

“Are you faint?” he asked anxiously. “I suppose it is warm in here. Take your coat off! Jove! that’s a fine coat–––” He ran an appreciative hand down the 251 soft fur sleeve; a sudden suspicion crept into his eyes. “Who gave you that?” he asked sharply. “Not Mellowes–––?”

“No––at least....” She could not go on. Micky had given it to her, she knew, but she would have bitten her tongue through rather than have told this man.

It had been Micky all the time––Micky....

She thrust the thought of him from her; she did not want to think of him now. There would be plenty of time later on; plenty of time when she had shaken off the last rag of the past.

“It cost a pretty penny, whoever bought it,” he said sulkily. “What else has he given you? If you can take presents from him you can’t refuse to let me see you sometimes, and after all––you did love me once.... Esther, do you remember the way you cried that last day?”

“Yes,” she said mechanically, “I remember; I remember everything.”

“You loved me well enough then,” he reminded her moodily. “You didn’t behave like an iceberg then, Lallie, and I’m not really changed; I’m the same man I was––I care for you just as much–––”

“You’re married!” she said.

She felt as if she had so much time mapped out before her during which she must put up with this man’s society; as if each moment were another inch torn in the rags of disillusionment which had got to be destroyed thoroughly before she could ever hope to gather up the broken threads of her life again.

He laughed at her reminder.

“I’m not the only married man who sometimes forgets that he is no longer a bachelor,” he said detestably.

He laid an arm familiarly along the back of her chair. He touched her chin with his fingers.

She moved back, the hot blood rushing riotously over her face. She was white no longer; she looked like a marble Galatea suddenly brought to life.

Raymond Ashton laughed, well pleased. He was confident that he had not lost his power over her. For the moment his appalling vanity blinded him to the fact that it was not love in her eyes, but scorn.

“What are you thinking, Lallie?” he asked her.

She sat very straight and stiff in her chair.

“I am thinking,” she said, “how impossible it seems that I can ever have thought that I cared for you.” Her voice was low but very clear, and he heard each word distinctly. “I am thinking that you are the most contemptible thing I have ever met in my life––I am thinking how sorry I am for the woman who is your wife.”

She pushed back her chair and rose.

“Would you like to hear any more of my thoughts?” she asked.

Ashton had risen too; there was a look of bewildered amazement in his face; he tried to laugh. Even now he thought she was joking.

“Lallie––” he said hoarsely. He half held his hand to her. “Lallie––” he said again––but the cold contempt of her face struck the appeal from her lips.

He drew himself up with a poor attempt at dignity.

“So virtue is to be the order of the day, is it?” he said sneeringly. “Very well–––” His eyes flamed as they rested on her face. “It makes one wonder why you are here––in Paris––alone!” he said insultingly––“If you are alone.”

There was a little point of silence. For a moment Esther scanned his handsome face as if she were trying to remember what it was she had ever loved in him––his eyes!––but they were so cruel and insolent––his lips ... she shuddered, realising that in all her life she could never undo the memory of his kisses––then she pulled herself together with a great effort and turned away.

He followed. His amazement had gone now––he was merely furiously angry––his face was crimson––he caught her arm in a grip that hurt.

“My God, you’re not going like this,” he said furiously. “It’s only a few weeks ago that you were crying round my neck and begging me not to throw you over. Oh, that hurts, does it?” he said as she winced. “I dare say you’d like all that wiped out and forgotten. But I’ve got a few letters to remember you by––a few letters that would hardly make pleasant reading for the next man who is fool enough to waste his time on you––and I promise you I’ll send them along if it’s Mellowes or any other man–––”

She raised triumphant eyes to his face.

“He wouldn’t read them,” she said passionately. “Send them if you like; but he wouldn’t read them–––” She was not conscious of the admission in her words––she only knew that the knowledge that Micky was there somewhere in the background gave her the strength to defy Ashton.

She saw the sudden fury that filled his eyes.

“Then––then you admit that it’s Mellowes,” he stammered. “That it’s he who has taken my place––who has cut me out–––” His voice changed to a sort of threat.

“I might have know what he meant to do. I might have guessed. Wait till I see him––wait till I get back to London.”

Esther smiled––a little smile of security and confidence.

“There is no need to wait,” she said quietly. “Mr. Mellowes is here in Paris with me, if you wish to see him.”