"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 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. CHAPTER XXXVII Esther woke from a troubled sleep that night, to find June standing beside her. Pale moonlight shone into the room from half-drawn blinds, filling it with an eerie light, as Esther started up trembling and frightened. "What is it? is anything the matter? Oh, I thought you were a ghost!" She clutched at June with both hands. "Oh, is anything the matter?" she asked again. June laughed nervously; she found matches and lit a candle, then she came back to Esther and thrust something into her hands.