He wondered what June was thinking, and Miss Dearling! He wished from the depths of his soul that he had remembered to send those wires. There was his car, too––he had left that in the yard at Charing Cross––what the dickens would become of it?––not that it mattered much, he was too miserable to be seriously concerned about anything.
Some minutes passed, but Esther did not move. Micky spoke her name once softly––
“Esther....” But she did not answer; he leaned over and touched her hand, but she did not stir; in spite of what she had said she was asleep.
Micky gave a sigh of relief. He drew his coat and the rug more closely around her; he was very cold himself, but that did not trouble him; he finished the contents of the supper basket before he went back to his own corner.
The train rumbled on through the night; it dragged into many little stations and stopped jerkily, but Esther did not wake.
Once when she moved and the rug slipped, Micky rose and quietly replaced it. He was very tired himself, but his brain would not allow him to sleep; he felt as if he were living through years during these long hours.
He sat looking at Esther with wistful eyes. Why was it that people never fell in love with the right people? he asked himself vaguely. He could have made her so happy.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then dragged them open again. He must not go to sleep, whatever happened. He sat up stiffly.
Presently he lifted a corner of the blind. The sky looked a little lighter, as if dawn were not far away. He looked at his watch. Nearly two!
A sudden impulse came to him to wake Esther and make her listen now to what he had to say. The time 239 was getting short, and there was so much to tell her and explain.