"You can't go like this," he said stammering. "How can I let you go like this? Whatever I've done, I haven't deserved that you should think as badly of me as you do. It was because I cared for you so much--I tried to save you pain ... perhaps it isn't any excuse, but it's the truth.... I'd give my very soul if I could undo what's gone, if I could save you from this." She was not looking at him, but the cold contempt in her face stung him. "You may despise me," he broke out again jaggedly. "But it's the truth I've told you.... Ashton never cared for you; that night at my rooms...." He stopped, he did not want to tell her, but somehow there was a compelling force within him that drove the words to his lips. "He told me he'd had to break with you--that he was going away from London because of you. He said he must marry a woman with money--it's the truth, if I never speak again. He never cared for you, Esther--he was never fit to kiss the ground you walk on. He wanted to be rid of you--he----" Micky stopped; Esther had given a little strangled cry, half-sob, half-moan, like some animal in mortal pain; for the moment she saw the world red; hardly knowing what she did, she lifted her hand and struck Micky across his white face. "Oh, you liar--you liar," she said. The words were a hoarse whisper, her voice was almost gone. She fell away from him, shaking in every limb; she dropped into a chair hiding her face. Micky stood like a man turned to stone. She had not hurt him physically, though there was a red flush where she had struck him, but he felt as if the blow had fallen on his aching heart and his love for her. It seemed a long time before either of them moved or spoke, then Esther dragged herself to her feet. "Please let me pass," she said in a whisper, and Micky stood aside without a word. He followed her out and inquired for a train; there was a slow one at ten-fifty they told him. He put Esther into a carriage and got a rug for her and a cushion. He knew she had had nothing to eat, and he ordered a basket to be made up at the refreshment-room. When he came back she was sitting in a corner with her eyes closed. She had taken off her hat, and her golden hair was tumbled about her face. She took no notice when he put the rug over her; she did not even open her eyes when the train started. Micky sat down in the opposite corner. He felt more tired than he had ever done in all his life, and yet he knew that he could not sleep; his brain seemed as if it would never rest again. He sat with face averted from the girl in the corner, looking out into the darkness. It seemed strange to realise that he had made this same journey dozens of times before. He felt that it was all strange and distasteful to him. The chattering voices of the French porters and the whistle of the engines sounded new and quaint as if he had never heard them before. It seemed an eternity before the train started slowly away.