Mickey caught his breath hard. After a moment he went on reading:

"June tells me he is very rich, and quite a 'somebody,' but I cannot see anything out of the ordinary about him, and he isn't a bit good looking. He knows you, too--but he does not say much about you. Dearest, it seems such a long time since I saw you--and I cannot help wondering if you really miss me and want me as much as I want you.... Sometimes I would give just anything to lay my head on your shoulder and say how much I love you. I'm very lonely, really; though June is so kind she isn't any one of my very own, is she? And now I wonder if you will be very angry with me if I ask you something? I don't think I should have dared to, only your last letters have been so dear and kind. Raymond, why can't I come out to you and be with you? We could get married, and we should be ever so happy even if we have to be poor--at least, I know I could, and from your letters, somehow I think it sounds as if you, too, have realised that there isn't much happiness away from me. I have had the offer of a good post--I won't tell you what it is, as I want it to be a surprise to you if I do take it.

But if you would like me to come, I will just leave everything and come to you. Couldn't you send me a wire when you get this letter?

I shall be longing and waiting to hear from you. I am a little bit afraid in my heart, really, now I have written this, but your last letter is lying beside me, and I keep peeping at it and reading what you say there, and somehow I feel that it's going to be all right.--

With all my love for ever and ever, LALLIE.

Mickey sat there staring down at her signature a long time after he had reached the end.

Then he moved slowly as if it cost him an effort. He was rather pale now, and there was a hard line round his mouth. So that was how she thought of him! Somehow he had not imagined how much it would hurt to read the fond words and to know all the time that they were written to another man. And to a man so unworthy! He thought of Ashton as he had seen him three nights ago with Mrs. Clare; of his callous questioning about Esther; of his almost brutal remarks, and it made his blood boil.

He could picture her so well--waiting for a wire that would never come.

He hated Ashton at that moment. His brows almost met above his eyes in a scowl as he went up to the bureau and asked for his bill. The smiling French girl sobered a little meeting his gaze; for once she did not dare to smile or dimple; she gave him his account silently.

"Ah, but they are funny, these English;" she told her father afterwards. "To-day he had no smile, the tall monsieur--not even one little smile!"

She watched Micky across the lounge with interested eyes as he sat down at one of the tables and proceeded to write a letter. It took him a long time, and twice she saw that he tore up what he had written and flung it into the wastepaper basket, but at last he had finished, and getting up, stalked away.

Celeste ventured out then--there was n.o.body about, and tiptoeing across the lounge, took the torn papers from the paper-basket. They were torn across and across, but on one or two slips the writing was visible, and she carried them back with her to the shelter of the bureau.

She spread them out on the desk before her, carefully piecing them together. She knew English quite well, and she soon made out one sentence:--

"It is not that I do not love you--I have never loved you better than at this moment--but...."

Celeste was sentimental. She gave a big sigh of sympathy for the big Englishman. "No wonder he has no smile!" she told herself. "_C'est si triste!_"

CHAPTER XV

It was raining and miserable when Micky arrived in London. The roads were wet and slippery, and every taxi and omnibus splashed pedestrians with mud.

Micky shivered as he stood waiting while a porter lugged his traps down from the rack. He had felt depressed in Paris, but now London seemed a thousand times worse. The sight of Driver waiting on the platform annoyed him. He answered the man's stolid greeting snappishly. He had wanted to come home, and yet now he was here he wished himself a thousand miles away. He leaned back in a corner of the taxi and shut his eyes.

The last four days had got on his nerves; Esther's letter in his pocket was like an eternal reproach.

Why had he come back at all? She did not want him--n.o.body wanted him in the whole forsaken world. The silence of his flat seemed a thing to be dreaded in his present mood. Driver's inscrutable face would, he felt, drive him mad. With sudden impulse he leaned forward and called to the chauffeur, "Stop--I've changed my mind--drive me back to the Savoy...."

There would be life there, at any rate--life and people and music--something to make a man forget the depression that sat like a ton weight on his shoulders.

He felt utterly at a loose end; he stalked moodily into the lounge.

There were many people there, girls in pretty dinner frocks, with their attendant cavaliers. Micky glanced at none of them, till suddenly a girl who had been sitting on a couch listening rather listlessly to the conversation of a youth beside her, rose to her feet when she saw Micky, the hot colour flying to her cheeks.

For a moment she hesitated, waiting for him to look at her, to speak--but Micky had stalked by without turning his eyes, and after the barest second she followed and touched his arm.

"Micky...." she said breathlessly, and again "Micky," with an odd little catch in her voice.

Micky turned as if he had been shot, then stopped dead, colouring up to the roots of his hair, for the girl was Marie Deland.

She smiled tremulously, reading the distress in his eyes.

"I thought I was never going to see you any more," she said. She tried hard to speak casually, but her voice quivered a little. "Where have you been hiding all this time, Micky?"

Micky stammered out that he really didn't know--that he'd only just come back from Paris--that he did call to see her one night, but that they told him she wasn't in. She broke in there impetuously--

"I know; I'm so sorry. It wasn't my fault. I was there all the time.

Mother----" She stopped, biting her lip, but there was no need to explain further. Micky could well imagine that it was by Mrs. Deland's orders that the butler had said "Not at home."

His heart was full of remorse as he looked down at Marie. Such a little while ago he had thought of her as his wife. He had fully meant to marry her.

He broke out again agitatedly--

"I know you must think I'm an awful sweep. I--I--oh, I can't explain."

He glanced past her to where the rather vapid-looking youth to whom she had been speaking sat tugging at an incipient moustache.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again. "Who are you with?"

She told him that she was with her married sister and some friends.

"We're going to have dinner here," she said. She was longing to ask Micky to dine with them, but was obviously afraid to do so.

After a moment--

"I suppose I ought to be going," she said. "Violet will wonder where I am, Micky." She looked up at him with abashed eyes. "I--I suppose--you wouldn't--will you come out to tea with me to-morrow?"

Micky's face reflected the flush in her own; he looked away in miserable embarra.s.sment. He knew that she felt the same towards him as she had done before that memorable New Year's Eve, and he knew that whatever happened now he could never feel the same to her any more.

He answered that he would be pleased, very pleased. Where should he meet her--or should he call for her?

"I'll meet you," she said quickly. "You know where we always used to go--I'll be there at four, Micky."

She put out her hand and Micky was forced to take it; he felt how her fingers shook in his, and he cursed himself for a brute as he turned away and left her.

In a way he was glad they had met. Any other woman would have given him the snubbing which he knew he so richly deserved. Deep down in his heart he wished that she had done so; anything would have been easier to meet than this trembling overture of friendship. He knew that the little abashed expression in Marie's dark eyes could only mean one thing, that he had cut her to the soul and that she still cared for him.

He left the Savoy without having any dinner; he went back to his rooms, where the imperturbable Driver was brushing and refolding his master's clothes. It had almost broken Driver's heart to see the way in which Micky had packed his things; he raised eyes of wooden reproach as Micky entered the room.

There was a pile of letters on the table. Micky flicked them through carelessly; nothing of interest--a few bills and a good many invitations; nothing from Esther--not even a note from June.

He sat down by the fire and proceeded to cut the many envelopes open.

He kept thinking of Marie and wondering if it would be kinder not to meet her to-morrow, after all; if he could possibly write her a note that would tactfully explain the situation.

He just glanced at each of the notes as he opened them, and let them drop to the carpet at his feet. They could be answered later; there was nothing of importance, nothing he ... his attention was arrested:--

"DEAR MR. MELLOWES,--I wonder if it will be asking too much of you to come round and see me one afternoon for half an hour?--