She rose to her feet, pushing the hair back from her face as if she were distraught.
“How dare you say such things to me?” she said in an odd, choked voice. “You always hated him––you and June. Do you think I’m going to believe you? Do you think I could believe you for a moment when I have his letters––when he has shown me in so many ways how he cares?... I don’t care what you say––I don’t care if the whole world were to tell me it was true––I’ll never believe it till he tells me himself....” Her breath came gaspingly; she looked at Micky’s white face with passionate hatred in her eyes.
“How do I know it isn’t all a made-up story?” she asked him hoarsely.
She hardly knew what she was saying; she leaned her arms on the mantelshelf and hid her face in them.
Micky let her alone; he got up and began pacing up and down the room.
He deserved everything she had said; it was all his fault that she had got this to bear. With the best intentions in the world he had proved himself a blundering fool.
Esther raised her head; she had not shed a tear, but her face was white and desolate.
She walked past him to the door.
“I’m going on to Paris to-night,” she said. “Nothing you can say will stop me––nothing.”