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.
“Write to me as soon as you get this, so that I may have a letter to take with me when I leave. I shall watch for every post and count the minutes till it comes. I have arranged with my bankers to send the money to you every week. Dearest, if this is not enough, please let me know, and I will send some more....”