He kept out of the Delands’ way when they reached Calais; he was first off the boat; he stood in the darkness trembling with excitement.
There were all sorts of people pouring past him––men, women, and children. They all seemed happy and eager––a couple of Frenchmen standing near him chattered incessantly; Micky moistened his dry lips; there was a little nerve throbbing in his temple.
Supposing he never saw her again! His hands clenched deep in his pockets ... supposing he never met the half-shy glance of her grey eyes––supposing he never heard her voice any more––or her laugh....
The sweat broke out on his forehead. For a moment he closed his eyes with a sick feeling of hopelessness, and when he opened them again he saw Esther standing there not half a dozen paces from him.
The glare from a huge arc lamp shone full on her slim figure and golden hair.
She was looking round her in a scared, apprehensive way as if not knowing where to go.
A wave of such utter relief swept through Micky’s very soul that for a moment it almost turned him faint.
She was quite alone, but as Micky watched her he saw a French porter in a blue blouse go up to her and start chattering away, pointing to the small suit-case she carried and gesticulating violently. Esther shook her head––Micky remembered that she knew no French––but the man persisted, and she shook her head again in a frightened sort of way.
Micky covered the distance between them in a couple of strides.
“Esther....” he said, in a queer, choked sort of voice.