“Yes.”
“About four, then,” said Micky. He groped for her hand, found it, and pressed it. “Good-night,” he said.
“Good-night.”
And the next moment Micky was alone in the starlight.
He stood looking after the taxi with a queer sense of unreality. Had he just dreamt it all, and was there really no such girl as Esther Shepstone? No Charlie? He shook himself together with a laugh. Of course it was real, all of it! He walked on soberly through the cold night.
To-morrow he would go to the very horrid boarding-house in the Brixton Road and see her again.
Esther! He liked her name; there was something quaint and old-world about it. It seemed impossible that they had only met a few hours ago.
His headache had quite vanished. He was whistling a snatch of song when he let himself into the house and went upstairs.
He opened the door of his sitting-room, and then stopped dead on the threshold. The lights were burning fully, and a man was ensconced in his favourite armchair by the fire––Ashton. Lord! he had forgotten all about Ashton.
Micky looked guiltily at the clock––nearly eleven!––he began a half-apology.