Why had he come back at all? She did not want him--nobody wanted him in the whole forsaken world. The silence of his flat seemed a thing to be dreaded in his present mood. Driver's inscrutable face would, he felt, drive him mad. With sudden impulse he leaned forward and called to the chauffeur, "Stop--I've changed my mind--drive me back to the Savoy...." There would be life there, at any rate--life and people and music--something to make a man forget the depression that sat like a ton weight on his shoulders. He felt utterly at a loose end; he stalked moodily into the lounge. There were many people there, girls in pretty dinner frocks, with their attendant cavaliers. Micky glanced at none of them, till suddenly a girl who had been sitting on a couch listening rather listlessly to the conversation of a youth beside her, rose to her feet when she saw Micky, the hot colour flying to her cheeks. For a moment she hesitated, waiting for him to look at her, to speak--but Micky had stalked by without turning his eyes, and after the barest second she followed and touched his arm. "Micky...." she said breathlessly, and again "Micky," with an odd little catch in her voice. Micky turned as if he had been shot, then stopped dead, colouring up to the roots of his hair, for the girl was Marie Deland. She smiled tremulously, reading the distress in his eyes. "I thought I was never going to see you any more," she said. She tried hard to speak casually, but her voice quivered a little. "Where have you been hiding all this time, Micky?" Micky stammered out that he really didn't know--that he'd only just come back from Paris--that he did call to see her one night, but that they told him she wasn't in. She broke in there impetuously-- "I know; I'm so sorry. It wasn't my fault. I was there all the time. Mother----" She stopped, biting her lip, but there was no need to explain further. Micky could well imagine that it was by Mrs. Deland's orders that the butler had said "Not at home." His heart was full of remorse as he looked down at Marie. Such a little while ago he had thought of her as his wife. He had fully meant to marry her. He broke out again agitatedly-- "I know you must think I'm an awful sweep. I--I--oh, I can't explain." He glanced past her to where the rather vapid-looking youth to whom she had been speaking sat tugging at an incipient moustache. "What are you doing here?" he asked again. "Who are you with?" She told him that she was with her married sister and some friends. "We're going to have dinner here," she said. She was longing to ask Micky to dine with them, but was obviously afraid to do so. After a moment-- "I suppose I ought to be going," she said. "Violet will wonder where I am, Micky." She looked up at him with abashed eyes. "I--I suppose--you wouldn't--will you come out to tea with me to-morrow?"