Micky had a horrible conviction that she had not believed that he had any one to meet. He coloured in confusion as he answered––
“No––no. I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”
She moved away leaving him with her father. The old man slipped a hand through Micky’s arm.
“Don’t notice her, my boy; women are queer cattle––and I expect she’s a little sore with you still.”
Micky wished it was possible to jump overboard. He found the old man’s friendliness more insufferable than the look of reproach in Marie’s eyes. As soon as he could he got away; he went down the companion-way and wandered round despondently.
If Esther were on the boat she must have seen him and was deliberately keeping out of his way; he glanced in at the open door of the ladies’ cabin as he passed.
Several pessimistic souls who had already made up their minds to be ill, although the sea was like a mill-pond, had arranged themselves on the couches, with pillows under their heads; as Micky passed the cabin some one slammed the door smartly in his face.
He went upon deck again and stood looking out to sea, with the wind stinging his face.
It was getting dark rapidly; the lights of Dover twinkled through the greyness. Micky stood and watched till they could no longer be seen. He was chilled to the bone in spite of his warm coat; he turned the collar 229 up round his throat and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets.
His fingers came in contact with the telegrams he had written in the train and forgotten to send. He swore under his breath.