“Nothing,” said Micky curtly. “Good-night.” He turned on his heel and went out.
CHAPTER XIV
Micky stayed in Paris four days; the four longest days of his life.
He wandered about killing time and wishing everything and every one at the bottom of the sea.
It seemed impossible that he had ever managed to have a good time over here––the noise and bustle of the streets got on his nerves; the things that had always amused him before bored him and left him cold; he thought of London with a deadly sort of home-sickness.
Esther did not mean to write to him, he was sure, and in some ways he hoped she would not; he realised that he was playing a mean trick on her, cheating her out of fond words and a love-letter to which he had not the smallest claim.
He tried to salve his conscience by making up his mind to leave on the Monday morning whatever happened; if there was no letter by that time there would never be one. Esther would have gone to Mrs. Ashton’s. It was surprising how much he hated the thought of her being with Raymond’s mother. During the interminable hours when he walked about Paris trying to kill time he thought out all manner of possibilities that might result from this unforeseen contingency. Mrs. Ashton might get fond of Esther––and if she got fond of Esther, well––who knew what might happen in the future in spite of Tubby Clare’s little widow? He had not run across Ashton again, and he sincerely hoped that he would not.
When Monday morning came he packed his portmanteau before he left his room––there would be no letter for him, so he might as well clear out and go home without making a further fool of himself. There was not the least hope in his heart when he went to the bureau 134 and asked for letters; the reply came as it had done each morning: “Nothing for monsieur....”