There was a quiver in her voice that set him on edge; he could not stand the sound of unhappiness in any woman's voice, and he had once thought he loved Marie.... He answered without looking at her, realising that it was kinder to tell the truth out and have done with it. "I meant to have written to you--I hope some day you will try and forgive me, but ... but...." He could not go on for the life of him, but he had said enough, and he knew that she understood. "You mean ... you mean that there is some one else?" she asked with stiff lips. "Yes." He looked at her white, stricken face, and felt himself a brute. It seemed an eternity before she could steady her voice enough to speak. "Is it--is it some one I know?" "No, dear," said Micky very gently. "It isn't any one you have ever seen----" She picked up her big muff suddenly and held it so that her face was hidden; the little word of endearment that had escaped Micky's lips had almost broken her down. This was the end of all she had ever hoped for, and for the moment she could not choke the anguish in her heart. The following silence seemed unending; then she looked round for her gloves, and put them on, buttoning them with shaking fingers. "I am ready if you are," she said. She did not look at him, but it felt like dying to walk beside him out of the shop and into the cold air and know that perhaps this was the last time they would ever be alone, he and she. Once her steps faltered a little, and Micky put out his hand to steady her, but she drew away from him. "Please don't," she said in a whisper. There was a taxi waiting at the roadside, and Micky called to the man. There was a slight cold drizzle of rain falling as he held open the door. He would have followed but she stopped him. "I should like to go alone, if you don't mind." He looked up, and for a moment he saw her face in the light of the taxi lamp; such a white, quivering face it was. "Marie!..." said Micky in a choked voice, but she waved him away. He stood there on the kerb till the taxi had whirled out of sight, and once again he asked himself desperately if it were all worth while, if he were not throwing away the real thing for a chimera. There was probably a no more unhappy man in London at that moment than Micky Mellowes. CHAPTER XVII Esther had spent a week indoors with a cold, and it was the longest she could ever remember. June was kindness itself, and fussed and petted and made much of her, but the days dragged. There was only one thing to live for--the post! And though the rat-tat rang through the house three or four times a day, there was never anything for Esther. Her own letter to Paris remained unanswered. The telegram for which she longed never came. June watched her with a mixture of sympathy and impatience.