“Very well, then I will come with you.”
She did not answer; she fumbled helplessly with the door handle. Micky came forward to open it for her, and their hands touched. A little flame of red rushed to his face; he put his shoulders to the door.
“You can’t go like this,” he said stammering. “How can I let you go like this? Whatever I’ve done, I haven’t deserved that you should think as badly of me as you do. It was because I cared for you so much––I tried to save you pain ... perhaps it isn’t any excuse, but it’s the truth.... I’d give my very soul if I could undo what’s gone, if I could save you from this.”
She was not looking at him, but the cold contempt in her face stung him.
“You may despise me,” he broke out again jaggedly. “But it’s the truth I’ve told you.... Ashton never cared for you; that night at my rooms....” He stopped, he did not want to tell her, but somehow there was a compelling force within him that drove the words to his lips.
“He told me he’d had to break with you––that he was going away from London because of you. He said he must marry a woman with money––it’s the truth, if I never speak again. He never cared for you, Esther––he was never fit to kiss the ground you walk on. He wanted to be rid of you––he–––”
Micky stopped; Esther had given a little strangled cry, half-sob, half-moan, like some animal in mortal pain; for the moment she saw the world red; hardly knowing what she did, she lifted her hand and struck Micky across his white face.
“Oh, you liar––you liar,” she said. The words were a hoarse whisper, her voice was almost gone.
She fell away from him, shaking in every limb; she dropped into a chair hiding her face.