A long moment of silence followed Micky’s broken confession. He dared not look at Esther, though she was staring at him, staring hard, with a curious sort of wonderment in her grey eyes. Then all at once she began to laugh, a laugh which held no real mirth, only incredulity.
Micky raised his head sharply.
For a second they stared at one another; then Micky said hoarsely––
“You don’t believe me”; and then again, more slowly: “You mean that you––don’t believe––me?”
He half rose to his feet.
“Esther, I implore you.”
She moved back from him.
“It was clever of you––to think of such an excuse,” she said unevenly.
“It’s the truth; I swear it if I never speak again. I know now that I must have been out of my mind to attempt such a thing, but it has only seemed impossible since you showed me how little you thought of me. I wrote those letters––every one of them. I–––”
In the excitement of the moment neither of them had noticed that the train had reached its destination and was slowly stopping.