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.
What was the good of putting all one’s eggs in the same basket? she asked herself crossly. What was the good of falling in love if nothing better than unhappiness ever came of it? She began to hate the phantom lover, as she called him, with increased hatred.
“I don’t think you’re strong enough to go yet, you know,” she said to Esther one afternoon when they were sitting together in the firelight. “Write and tell Mrs. Ashton you can’t come for another week, or that you can’t go at all. I do wish you would.”
Esther shook her head.
“I promised to go, and I must do something. I shall be all right by Monday. Mrs. Ashton has waited long enough as it is.”
She looked pale and ill, June thought angrily, and put it all down to “that man.”
“Has Mr. Mellowes come back from Paris yet?” Esther asked suddenly. June was faintly amazed; Esther never spoke of Micky. She answered rather dubiously that she did not know.