"To-morrow morning will do," Micky said. "You can go by the first boat train." He looked at the man anxiously. He had a sort of uncomfortable feeling that Driver must be thinking he was not quite right in the head. After a moment he dismissed him. Then Micky went over to his desk and rummaged amongst the many papers and letters there till he found a sheet of paper embossed with the name of an hotel in Paris. It had not been used, and Micky heaved a sigh of relief. He went to bed late that night. He forgot all about his promise to go round to the Delands. He spent the time writing letters and tearing them up again till the wastepaper basket was full; then he carried it over to the fireplace and burnt every scrap of paper it contained. There were two finished letters lying on his desk. One was sealed and addressed, but not stamped, and the other was written on a sheet of Driver's plain notepaper, which Micky folded and unfolded with a sort of nervous dissatisfaction. Its contents were not very long, but they had taken a good deal of composing. "DEAR MISS SHEPSTONE,--I received your note in reply to my letter and cannot help saying that I feel very hurt at your decided refusal to allow me to take you out. I thought we were to be friends? Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you? If so, I can only assure you that it has been utterly unintentional. Won't you let me see you, if only for a moment? I will meet you at any time or place.-- Yours sincerely, MICKEY MELLOWES." He gave a dissatisfied growl as he finished reading it. Not a very eloquent epistle. There was so much more which he wanted to say, but did not dare to. He folded it again and thrust it into an envelope; then he addressed it and laid it beside that other on his desk, comparing the two handwritings with complacence. Not in the least alike! Nobody would ever suspect that they had been written by the same person. He rang for Driver and gave him the unstamped envelope. "This is what I want you to post in Paris. Mind you put enough stamps on. You'd better have it weighed." "Yes, sir." Driver looked at the other letter. "And--is that for the post too, sir?" Micky put his hand behind him with a guilty gesture. "No; I'll post that myself," he said, and he went out then and there into the cold night and did so. As it dropped into the letter-box Micky looked up at the stars and sighed. What the dickens could he have done to make her so distant? At any rate he would let her see that he was not to be so easily snubbed. If she didn't answer his letter he would go boldly round to Elphinstone Road, and stay there till he saw her. He was half way to bed before he remembered that he had promised to go to the Delands that evening. He stopped short with his necktie half undone and swore. What the deuce would they think of him?