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 nobody 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.