After all, it was only for a few nights. He did not want to stay in Paris long--Paris always bored him, but he made a little grimace as he looked up at the windows of the hotel. It certainly was a rotten-looking little show, he thought as he followed the concierge into the hall. This, too, was small and unpretentious, with a polished floor and wicker chairs scattered about. There was a kind of winter garden leading from the lounge, where a few neglected palms and ferns were struggling for an existence, and the whole place was silent, almost deserted. Micky was too late for dinner, but a smiling host, with a short dark beard, assured him that he could have a most excellent supper in less time than he would enumerate of what that supper would consist. Micky said he didn't care what it was. He followed his suit-case up the wide, shallow stairs to a quaint little room with a low ceiling and polished floor. He was beginning to feel more at home after all; one could be quiet here and not be eternally running up against people whom one knew; he felt more cheerful when he went down to his supper. He asked the waiter if there were many people staying there. His tone of voice sounded as if he sincerely hoped there were not, and the waiter tactfully submitted that the place was almost empty. Micky proceeded with his supper. It was nearly ten o'clock, but he went out into the lounge when he had finished and sat down at a table in one of the most secluded corners. There were pen and ink and a supply of hotel note paper, which Micky looked at with great satisfaction, before he took up a pen, carefully examined the nib, squared his elbows and began to write. "My darling----" Micky wrote the words hurriedly and covered them over with a sheet of blotting paper as if they made him feel guilty. "I thought I should have been leaving Paris before now, but have been delayed. I shall be staying here till the end of the week and am writing this so that you can let me have a letter before I leave. I hope you have received both my other letters safely, and are quite well and as happy as possible, seeing that we cannot be together----" He sat back for a moment and looked at this frowningly, then he wrote on hurriedly. "I want you to miss me, you see--I want you to feel as I do, that there is only one thing to look forward to and that is when we shall be together again. Dearest, it seems now that I have never really told you how well I love you. Some day, if all that I wish for comes true, I will tell you the many things you would not let me say when we were last together...." Micky's pen flew easily enough. For the moment he had forgotten why and for whom he was writing, and thought only of Esther as she had looked when he last saw her with the tears wet on her cheeks.