“The question is,” said June critically, looking out of the window to the street where a fine drizzle of rain was falling, “does one, or does one not, wear one’s best hat to go out and meet the one and only man one has ever loved?” She turned round and looked at Esther with a little nod. “That’s grammar, though you may not think it, my dear,” she said.

Esther laughed.

“I should say one does wear one’s best hat,” she said decidedly. “Especially seeing what a very charming hat it is.”

She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at June admiringly. “How long is it since you saw the great and only?” she asked.

June did some rapid counting on her white fingers.

“Nineteen hours exactly,” she said. “But it seems like ninety! I nearly died with joy when his note came at breakfast time–––” She looked at Esther wistfully. “You don’t know how lovely it is to have some one of your very own,” she said with unwonted sentimentality.

Esther averted her eyes.

“I envy you,” she said quietly. “But you’ll be late if you stand rhapsodising here––be off!”

June bent and kissed her.

“I shan’t be long––he’s only asked me for lunch....”

Esther smiled.

“I have known lunches that lasted till tea-time,” she said. “When there has been a great deal to talk about.”

June went downstairs singing. During the last few days she had, as she would have expressed it, begun to discover herself all over again. Certainly the world had utterly changed, and was more like a fairy city than a 291 place where it rained a great deal and where buses and taxicabs splashed pedestrians with mud.

Lydia met her at the foot of the stairs; she smiled at sight of the new hat.

“I was just coming up, Miss June,” she said. “There’s a letter for Miss Shepstone.”

June held out her hand.

“I’ll take it, and save you the trouble–––” She became conscious all at once of the girl’s admiring eyes, and blushed.

“Do you like my hat, Lydia?” She turned round for inspection.

Lydia admired enthusiastically, as she admired everything of June’s, and forgetful of everything but the moment, June thrust the letter for Esther into her coat pocket and went out blissfully into the rain to meet George Rochester.

George was ardent; he went into rhapsodies over the hat; he forgot to eat his most excellent lunch, and hardly took his eyes off June.

“It’s all so much waste of time this being engaged,” he said with pretended annoyance. “Why don’t we do the trick and get married? What are we waiting for? I’ll take you to the States for a wedding trip.”

June laughed, and protested blushingly that it was much too soon.

“I haven’t thought about it,” she declared, not quite truthfully. “There’s tons of things to see to first. What about my business and Esther?”

“Leave the one to look after the other,” he said promptly.

She shook her head.

“I couldn’t––I should hate to leave Esther alone; if only she could be married too?”

“Well––find her a husband. What about Mellowes?” he suggested jokingly.

June’s face sobered.

“Oh––Micky!” she said. She was not sure if she was 292 justified in telling Rochester that Micky had once cared for Esther. “I thought he was practically engaged to Marie Deland,” she said doubtfully.

Rochester gave an exclamation.

“That reminds me,” he said. “There seems to have been a bit of a row at the Hoopers’ dance last night.... I wasn’t there––but I heard some fellows at the club talking it over just now. Do you know a man named Ashton?”

June sniffed inelegantly.

“Do I not!”

“Well, if you don’t like him, you’ll be pleased to hear that Micky knocked him into the middle of next week,” Rochester said calmly.

June’s eyes gleamed.

“Never! Well, I’m delighted to hear it! What was it about?”

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, they were gossiping about some woman, as far as I could make out––a woman Micky had been rather friendly with, from what I gathered––they didn’t mention her name, but–––” he hesitated. “They spoke of her as a girl from ... I’ve forgotten the name, but I think it was a petticoat shop–––”

“Eldred’s?” said June sharply.

“Yes, that was it! What do you know about it?”

“Nothing––go on! What were they saying?”

“That she’d been to Paris with Mellowes, and Mellowes overheard it, and there was a bit of a fight, and Mellowes said that the girl was his wife....”

June gasped.

“What!”

Rochester looked rather uncomfortable.

“It’s only club talk,” he said deprecatingly. “Dare say it’s all lies.”

June pushed back her chair; her brain was in a whirl; she stared at Rochester with dazed eyes.

“Of course you’re mad, quite mad,” she said calmly.

“Or I am! which is it?... My dear man, the girl Micky went to Paris with was Esther! my Esther Shepstone! and here you are trying to tell me that she and Micky are married!” She burst into hysterical laughter.

“I’m not trying to tell you,” he protested injuredly. “It’s only what I heard; and any way, if Mellowes went to Paris with Miss Shepstone–––”

He broke off before the anger in June’s eyes.

“If you speak about Esther in that tone of voice again, I shall hate you for ever,” she said furiously. “If you must know the truth, I’ll tell it to you, and another time just don’t judge people till you’ve heard both sides of the question,” and she promptly proceeded to tell him the whole story of her meeting with Esther, and all that had happened since.

Rochester listened quietly, but when she had finished, he said––

“Micky ought to have finished that skunk last night. If he cares for Miss Shepstone....”

“Oh but I don’t think he does now,” June struck in sadly. “He hasn’t been near her since they came back from Paris, and every one says that Marie Deland–––” she broke off.

“And when Miss Shepstone gets to hear what happened last night?” Rochester asked drily.

“Oh, but she won’t––she doesn’t know anybody who would tell her except you or me,” June said positively. “And of course she must never know. She never liked Micky, though why!...” She shrugged her shoulders. “Have you seen him to-day?” she asked.

“No––I’m going to this evening.”

“But you won’t let him know what I’ve told you? promise me!”

“Is it likely that I should? Men don’t gossip.”

“Oh, don’t they?” June answered tartly. “I wouldn’t trust one of them, not even you,” she added with a melting smile.

In spite of her promise to Esther, it was past tea-time when she got back home; she threw her hat and coat down anywhere and poked up the fire.

“Haven’t you had tea? What have you been doing all day?” she demanded crisply. “You haven’t had tea!––Good gracious, I’ll make some at once; I had some with George, but I’m quite ready for some more. My word! what a difference a man can make in one’s life,” she said, suddenly grave. “And to think that I ever talked piffle about not wanting to get married.”

She bustled round the room singing blithely; she was brimful of happiness. “You needn’t be surprised to hear that I’m going to be married quite soon,” she said with elaborate carelessness. “Lord! won’t people have forty fits? Except for Micky, my crowd don’t know I’m engaged yet. I’m going to take George home to see them on Sunday. I’ve discovered that he’s fourth cousin, about ninety times removed, to a baronet, so, perhaps, that will put them all in a good temper with him. My people do love titles! Give them a lord, or something, and it doesn’t matter what else he is, or isn’t.... You’re not listening, Esther.”

“I am. I heard every word you said.”

Esther was sitting by the fire with Charlie curled up in her lap; her face looked very sad and thoughtful. So she was to lose June quite soon!––her lips trembled; what was there left for her in all the world? It almost seemed as if time had stood still for a moment, and then suddenly rushed her back again with breathless speed, to leave her bereft of hope and happiness, as she had been before she met Micky.

Charlie had been her only friend then. Was he all that was to remain to her now?

June watched her across the room.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked suddenly; but Esther only shook her head.

For two days Micky Mellowes never left his rooms, and hardly ate a thing, and for once in his life Driver permitted a spark of anxiety to creep into his dull eyes. He was sure that his master was ill; he tried tempting dishes and alluring cocktails, but Micky refused them all.

“My good man, I’m not an invalid,” he protested irritably.

He hated it, because he knew his agitation was apparent; he tried to settle to read, but whenever a bell rang through the house he started up with racing pulses.

She must have got his letter, he knew. If there was any hope for him at all she would write at once or send for him. His nerves began to wear to rags.

Sometimes his hopes soared to the skies, to drop to zero again. Once in a fit of despondency he told Driver to pack his bag, as they would be leaving early in the morning.

“Yes, sir––where shall we be going, sir?” Driver asked stoically.

Micky swore.

“You do ask such damned silly questions,” he complained irritably.

An hour later, when he found Driver packing, he called him a fool, and told him to unpack at once.

And so the days dragged away.

“Any more posts to-night?” Micky asked jerkily, on the second day.

Driver eyed the clock.

“There should be one at nine, sir.”

But nine came, and half-past, and no post.

“Is it too late for the post now, Driver?” Micky asked feverishly, when it was nearly ten.

“The post went by, sir,” was the answer. “I was down at the door and saw the postman pass.”

Micky went back to his chair. It was all he could expect, he told himself––there had been no answer to his letter: there never would be an answer now.

When Driver came into the room again, Micky said without looking up––

“Pack that bag again, there’s a good fellow, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Driver imperturbably.

He hesitated, then asked––

“And––er––where did you say we should be going, sir?”

“I didn’t say,” said Micky. “And I don’t care––on the Continent––anywhere you like––look up some hotels....”

One place was as good as another, he argued, as he sat and watched Driver pack. Wherever he went he was going to be infernally miserable, so what did it matter?

When Driver stoically inquired how long he expected to be away, Micky answered violently that he was never coming back if he could help it; he said he hated London––he said he was sick to death of his flat and wanted a change.

“I shan’t come back till the autumn anyway,” he declared recklessly.

“Very good, sir,” was the stolid reply. Driver knew his master; he could remember another occasion when Micky had left London in a rage never to return, and ten days had seen him back again.

Certainly this was rather a different case from that other; this time there was a woman behind it. Driver knew this perfectly well, though beyond the posting of letters and the buying of the fur coat he had had no firsthand evidence.

But he kept his thoughts to himself and packed shirts and socks and coats by the score, as if to keep up the belief that they were really going for months, instead of the day which were the limit he prescribed in his own mind.

When Rochester called later on in the evening, Micky was almost rude to him. The American looked so unfeignedly happy that it got on Micky’s nerves; but George 297 P. Rochester was difficult to snub; he looked on at the packing with childlike amazement.

“It’s a sudden idea of yours, this flitting!” he submitted mildly. Micky did not answer.

“Hope you’ll be back in time for my wedding, Sonnie,” Rochester said again.

Micky flushed crimson; there was something rather pathetic about him at that moment.

“Oh, I’ll be back all right,” he said shortly.

Rochester laughed.

“You won’t have to stay away long then,” he said significantly.