Esther slept through the long journey fitfully––she was mentally and physically exhausted. She was only thoroughly aroused by people out in the corridor moving about collecting bags and baggage.

She opened her eyes with a confused feeling––the train was slackening speed, and Micky stood in the doorway.

“We are nearly in,” he said.

The train was almost at a standstill.

“Calais! Calais!”

Esther rose to her feet––her limbs were trembling, and her head ached dully.

Micky took her suit-case from the rack.

“You’d better fasten your coat,” he said casually. “It will be cold on the boat.”

She looked at him half fearfully. Was this the same man who had followed her from Enmore with such passionate haste and eagerness? He was perfectly undisturbed now at all events, he seemed even to avoid looking at her.

When they got on board he found her a chair on the leeside of the boat.

“Are you a good sailor?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been any distance until yesterday.”

“You’d better stay here; it’s preferable to that stuffy cabin.”

But he left her alone almost the whole time, though she knew that he walked up and down close to where she sat. She could see the glow of his cigar through the darkness and hear the slow sound of his steps.

She tried to think things over quietly as she sat there, 260 but everything seemed so unreal, and most of all the fact that Micky had once professed to love her.

In the train he left her to herself till they reached London. He was sure she “did not want to be bothered,” he said, and he was going to smoke.

Esther felt a little pang of disappointment. It seemed a long time till the train steamed fussily into Charing Cross; and the old weary feeling of loneliness had settled again upon her heart by the time Micky came to the door of the carriage.

“June is sure to be somewhere about,” he said laconically. “Will you stay here while I see if I can find her?”

She took a hurried step forward.

“No, I’ll come with you.”

She felt afraid of June’s kindly quizzical eyes; June who knew why she had run away to Paris, and what had been awaiting her there.

She touched Micky’s arm––the eyes she raised to his face were troubled.

“When shall I see you again?” she asked falteringly.

He half smiled.

“Why do you want to see me again?” he questioned gravely. “You can have no use for me––after this!”

Esther flushed painfully. Through the crowd she saw June pushing towards them. This was the last moment she would have with Micky, she knew, and in a flash something seemed to tell her what this man had meant to her during the last two terrible days.

“Oh,” she said tremblingly, “if you only would let me thank you.”

Micky laughed harshly––

“I hate thanks,” he said.

June was upon them; she seized Esther and kissed her rapturously.

“You darling! You’ll never know how glad I am to see you. I’ve been here for hours. Aren’t you dead tired? Micky, she looks worn out.”

“Does she?” said Micky.

He was dead beat himself; he looked round vacantly.

“I wired Driver––I thought he’d be here....”

“Here, sir,” said a voice at his elbow, and there was Driver, stolid and impenetrable as ever.

Micky was unfeignedly glad to see the little man; for almost the first time in his life he realised that sometimes dullness and short-sightedness are a blessing in disguise. Apparently to Driver there was nothing odd in this mad rush over to Paris; his expressionless eyes saw the untidiness of his master’ toilet without changing.

“I’ve brought the car, sir,” he said.

“Good man; get me a taxi, then. You must take the car down to your rooms,” Micky said to June. “No, don’t argue; I insist–––”

He put the two girls into the car; he did not look at Esther, though he squeezed June’s hand when he said good-bye.

“Let me know if you get back all right; I shall see you soon.”

He raised his hat, stood aside, and the car started forward.

June looked at Esther with a sort of shyness. It seemed as if years must have passed since they were down at Enmore.

The car had rolled out of the station and into the heart of London before either of them spoke; then Esther said, stiltedly:

“It was kind of you to come.”

June flushed.

“It wasn’t kind at all,” she said bluntly. “You’re my friends, or, at least, you were, and, as for Micky––well, I love him.”

There was a sort of defiance in her voice. She had seen the tired, strained look in Micky’s face, and she was nearer being angry with Esther than she had ever been, but she turned and took her hand.

“Somehow I never thought I should see you again,” 262 she said, with real emotion. “I haven’t slept a wink since you went away.”

“You’re much too good to me,” Esther said. “Everyone is much too good to me.”

“I think Micky is, certainly,” June agreed exasperatedly. “The man’s a perfect fool to run about like he does after a woman who doesn’t care two hoots about him.... There! now I oughtn’t to have said that. Esther, if you’re crying....”

Esther had covered her face with her hands.

“I’m not crying,” she said in a stifled voice. “But I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what you must think of me––it’s so––so humiliating.”

“It’s nothing of the kind,” June declared. “The only mistake you’ve made is to put your money on the wrong man, if you’ll excuse the expression. Raymond Ashton was always an outsider.... There! I won’t say another word. You’ve come home, and that’s all that matters.”

It was only when they were safely up in the room with the mauve cushions that she flung her hat down on the sofa and drew a long breath.

“Well, I never thought we should be here together again,” she said tragically. “It seemed like the end of everything when I found your note on the pincushion. I don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for Micky.”

“I don’t know what I should have done either,” Esther said. She met June’s eyes and flushed crimson. “I’ve been horrid about him, I know,” she added bravely. “And now I’m sorry.”

June said “Humph.” She sat for a moment staring at the floor, then she got up and searched for the inevitable cigarettes.

“You ought to go to bed,” she said in her most matter-of-fact tone. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“Nowhere––at least––we were in the train all night. I did sleep a little, but....”

June took her by the shoulders.

“Off you go to bed, and don’t argue. I’ve had a fire put in your room, and Charlie is there with a new bow on. I’ll come and tuck you up when you’re ready, and....”

But Esther refused to move.

“I couldn’t sleep if I went to bed. I want to tell you about––about what’s happened....” She paused breathlessly, but June was not going to help her.

“I don’t want to hear anything,” she said flatly. She looked at Esther and saw the tears in the younger girl’s eyes. She put an arm round her, drawing her down to the sofa.

“Tell me all about it, then,” she said. “I’m just––just longing to know.”

“But there isn’t much to tell, except–––” Esther held out her left hand. “I’m not engaged any more,” she said with a faint attempt to laugh. “He––Mr. Ashton––is married....”

“I know––Micky told me before we went to Enmore. I hope he’s married a vixen who’ll lead him an awful dance. It would serve her right to let her know the sort of man he is––to let her know the sort of letters he’s been writing to you––to show him up properly.”

Esther hid her face in the mauve cushions.

“Oh, but he has never written to me,” she said chokingly. “I’ve never had a letter from him since he went away, and that was on New Year’s Eve. It’s all been a mistake––a sham ... he never cared for me––he never really wanted me....”

June threw away the cigarette and tried to raise Esther.

“What are you talking about? He did write to you––you told me yourself that he wrote beautiful letters––he sent you that money––Esther! what do you mean?”

Esther looked up; for a moment June caught a glimpse of misty, shamed eyes.

“They weren’t from him: those letters––the money never came from him,” she said in a stifled voice.

“What! My good child, have you gone out of your mind?”

June was a hundred miles from guessing the truth. “If he didn’t write them, then who in the world did?” she demanded crisply. “And if he didn’t send the money, who in the wide world....”

She caught her breath on a sudden illuminating thought.

“Esther ... not––not––Micky!”

“Yes.” It was the smallest whisper, and it was followed by a tragic silence; then June got up and began walking aimlessly about the room; she felt as if she had been robbed of all breath.

Twice she turned and looked at Esther’s huddled figure, then she went back, laid a hand on her arm and said in an odd, gentle voice that was strangely unlike her own brisk tones:

“And do you mean to say that you don’t just think him the finest man in all the world?”

Esther sat up with sudden passion.

“I didn’t think of him at all––it was like having a knife turned in my heart when I knew,” she said wildly. “Oh, you can’t understand if you’ve never cared for anybody what it feels like to know that you’ve been made a fool of. When he told me I felt that I hated him––there didn’t seem anything fine or good in what he had done; I only knew that I’d been played with, made fun of....” She stopped, sobbing desperately, but for once June attempted no consolation. She was looking at Micky’s portrait on the shelf, and there was a wonderful tenderness in her queer eyes.

“Who told you?” she asked then. “Who told you that it was Micky?”

“He did––he only told me when he knew why I was going to Paris––he told me in the train. It’s been from Mr. Mellowes all along––the money I’ve had every week––my clothes––this coat ... he’s been paying for my food, and for me to live here....” She raised 265 her eyes to June’s face. “Did you know?” she asked shakily. “He said you didn’t, but somehow....”

June rounded on her angrily.

“If Micky said that I didn’t, that ought to be good enough,” she said curtly. “And of course, I didn’t know––if I had, I should have told him that he was a fool to waste his time and money on a girl who thought nothing of him,” she added flatly. Her voice changed all at once. “Oh, isn’t he just splendid!” she said emotionally. “I don’t understand it in the very least, why he has done it, or how he managed it, or anything, but I think it’s the finest thing in all the world–––” Esther turned away.

“I knew him before we met here––he wanted to tell you, but I asked him not to–––” She stopped and dragged on again.

“I met him on New Year’s Eve––I was so miserable––there seemed nothing to live for, and he was kind and so ... so ... I told him a little of what was wrong, and I suppose he guessed the rest.”

“And when he went to Paris that time it was all for your sake, and it was for your sake he kept coming here––oh!”––June rose to her feet with a gesture of intolerance––“if you don’t just adore the ground he walks on,” she said, “you ought to, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”

Esther made no answer; she was looking into the fire with eyes that as yet saw only the ruins of a dream that had been so beautiful, the rapidly receding shadow of the man whom she had once made a giant figure in her life.

“I never want to care for any one again,” she said presently in a hard voice. “You told me once that people were happier if they didn’t love, and I think you were right.”

“I was an idiot to ever say such a thing,” June cried in a rage. “And you’re a bigger idiot if you pretend to think I was right. There’s nothing better in the whole 266 world than being loved–––” Her face flushed like a rose. “If Micky had cared for me even a quarter as well as he does for you I would have married him, and that’s the truth,” she declared. “It was only because I knew he hadn’t anything except friendship to offer me that I knew it wasn’t fair....” She tried to cover the seriousness of her words with a laugh. She lit another cigarette. “And now, having got rid of my heroics, let’s talk sense,” she added more calmly. “But you ought to go to bed. You look worn out. You’ll be a wreck in the morning.”

“I don’t want to go to bed. I have such a lot to tell you. I shall have to leave here, of course; I haven’t got any money. I must try and find a post. I thought of asking Eldred’s to take me back; there might be a vacancy now....” But her voice sounded weary and hopeless.

June swooped down on her.

“You poor tired baby, come along to bed and don’t worry any more. You’ve got me whatever happens, and if the worst comes to the worst there’s always June Mason’s wonderful skin food for both of us to live on.”

They went upstairs together.

“There’s nothing like sunshine to put you on good terms with yourself,” she said philosophically. “Whenever I’m in the dumps or feel that I’m looking particularly plain, I put on my best hat and go out in the sunshine, and I assure you I’m a good-looking woman when I come home again.”

“You’re always better than good-looking,” Esther told her.