June’s friendship with Mr. George P. Rochester grew apace.

“Micky’s introductions are always a success,” she told Esther. “And Micky likes him too––awfully! Mr. Rochester is round at Micky’s rooms nearly every night. They’re ever such pals!”

“Are they?” said Esther. The mention of Micky’s name always seemed to make her heart quiver. She wondered if June knew why he never came to the house now, and what she thought about it all.

In her own mind she was sure that Micky had cast her off, and the knowledge left her with a sense of desolation.

She never spoke of him unless June did so first, and she tried never to think of him. But Micky was a personality not to be lightly dismissed from memory, and he haunted her thoughts waking and sleeping.

“If I could only get some work,” she told herself, “it would be better. It’s so dreadful having nothing to do.”

She had applied to Eldred’s unsuccessfully––she had climbed the narrow stairs of the agency a dozen times only to be met with rebuff.

“You refused an excellent post I offered to you,” she was told icily. “I am not likely to be able to find you such another.”

June coaxed her into helping with the “swindle.”

“If you don’t I’ll have to pay some one else to do it,” she declared. “And oh, Esther, don’t be so proud!”

So Esther gave in. She filled the little mauve pots with the profound skin food and fastened on lids and labels till her head swam.

Sometimes Mr. George P. Rochester came to help––at least he called it “help”––but he did very little actual work, as he was always too busy looking at June and talking to her.

“Has he suggested the partnership yet?” Esther asked one night.

June flushed rosily.

“Don’t be absurd,” she answered, and something in her voice woke a little note of fear in Esther’s heart.

Was she to lose June too? Was there to be nothing left to her in all the world? Her hands shook as she went on mechanically filling the row of little mauve pots.

“Esther,” said June suddenly, “how long is it since you saw Micky?”

There was a little pause, then Esther said constrainedly. “I’ve never seen him since––since we came back from Paris.”

She waited a moment.

“Why?” she asked with an effort.

June kept her eyes bent on her work.

“Because I haven’t seen him myself for nearly a week,” she said slowly. “And I hear––I hear that he’s running round with that Deland girl again.”

She did not dare to look up as she spoke, and she went on quickly, “Of course it may only be gossip––but George––Mr. Rochester–––” she hurriedly corrected herself, “tells me that Micky took him to their house to dinner last night.”

Silence. June filled pots at random, wildly, then Esther spoke.

“I’ve done eight dozen,” she said. “Do you think that is enough to go on with?”

June raised her eyes guiltily, then suddenly she pushed the laden tray from her and ran round to Esther.

“Oh,” she said impulsively, “if only––only you could have made yourself care for him.”

She put her arms round the younger girl’s unresponsive figure.

“I want you to be happy too, so badly,” she went on earnestly. “I didn’t mean to tell you yet, but I must somehow. George––Mr. Rochester–––” she broke off, laughing and crying together.

“The man’s a perfect disgrace,” she protested, “I told him so, too! I’ve only known him three weeks, and––and–––” she raised tear-drowned eyes to Esther’s face. “What can you do when a man that size kisses you?” she demanded.

Esther had to laugh.

“Why, do what you did,” she said. “Kiss him in return.”

June wiped her eyes and laughed, and shed more tears.

“I never meant to marry any one,” she said angrily. “But the dreadful creature seems to want me so desperately badly. I’m really utterly miserable, only–––”

“O June!” said Esther.

“So I am! At least!”––June looked up and suddenly laughed. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m a wicked liar! but oh, such a gloriously happy, wicked liar!”

“And it’s all entirely due to me,” Micky said when June rang him up the following morning to tell him the news.

“I introduced you! What do I get out of it all I should like to know?”

His voice was playful, but June took him seriously.

“O Micky! if you could only be as happy as I am,” she said eagerly.

Micky laughed.

“If wishes were horses, my dear–––” he said sententiously. “But don’t worry about me, I’m all right.”

“Then, will you come to dinner to-night? No, not at the boarding house! We’ll go to the Savoy––just to celebrate! We four!”

“We four!” said Micky sharply.

“Yes––I shall bring Esther, of course.”

There was the smallest possible pause, then Micky said:

“I’m sorry, but I’ve another engagement. I promised the Delands to go with them to the Hoopers’ dance.”

June said “Hang the Delands,” and rang off in a huff.

Micky hung up the receiver and turned away. He was sorry to disappoint June, and yet he had no smallest intention of meeting Esther. If she had wanted him she would have sent a note or a message––but she did not want him! More than once she had said that she hated him––it was time to learn that she meant what she said. Micky’s pride had got the upper hand at last, and he would rather have died now than make the smallest overture to the girl at whose feet he had once been willing to grovel.

Driver came to the door:

“A parcel, sir. Shall I bring it in?”

Micky answered absently:

“All right.”

Driver went out of the room. After a moment he came back with a square box which he set down on the table.

“Shall I open it, sir?” he asked, as Micky did not speak.

Micky started.

“Yes; oh, yes––open it. What the dickens is it? I haven’t ordered anything.”

Driver said that he did not know––that it had been left by a messenger. He untied the knotted string with neat precision, and rolled it into a ball before he removed the paper.

Micky walked up to the table and lifted the lid with faint curiosity.

“A fur coat,” he said blankly. “A fur–––” He stopped. 276 For a moment he stood staring down into the box, then he let the lid fall over it again.

“All right––you can go,” he said.

Driver walked to the door stoically, and Micky went back to the fire.

So she would not even keep the fur coat! She cared so little for him that she must needs send back his paltry gifts. What a fool he was to care––what a fool!

Driver, coming back for a moment, stopped petrified in the doorway. Micky was standing by the mantelpiece with his face buried in his arms.