He followed. His amazement had gone now––he was merely furiously angry––his face was crimson––he caught her arm in a grip that hurt.
“My God, you’re not going like this,” he said furiously. “It’s only a few weeks ago that you were crying round my neck and begging me not to throw you over. Oh, that hurts, does it?” he said as she winced. “I dare say you’d like all that wiped out and forgotten. But I’ve got a few letters to remember you by––a few letters that would hardly make pleasant reading for the next man who is fool enough to waste his time on you––and I promise you I’ll send them along if it’s Mellowes or any other man–––”
She raised triumphant eyes to his face.
“He wouldn’t read them,” she said passionately. “Send them if you like; but he wouldn’t read them–––” She was not conscious of the admission in her words––she only knew that the knowledge that Micky was there somewhere in the background gave her the strength to defy Ashton.
She saw the sudden fury that filled his eyes.
“Then––then you admit that it’s Mellowes,” he stammered. “That it’s he who has taken my place––who has cut me out–––” His voice changed to a sort of threat.
“I might have know what he meant to do. I might have guessed. Wait till I see him––wait till I get back to London.”
Esther smiled––a little smile of security and confidence.
“There is no need to wait,” she said quietly. “Mr. Mellowes is here in Paris with me, if you wish to see him.”