Then she suddenly remembered the hotel from which Micky had written to her. She would go there. It would be somewhere at least to sleep and rest.
It was only a little drive to the hotel; she wished it had been longer.
A commissionaire came forward, and said something in French. She looked up at him, but his face seemed all indistinct and unreal. She tried to answer, but her own voice sounded as if it were miles away.
They were in the small, rather dreary lounge. Esther passed a hand across her eyes. She must conquer this absurd weakness. She forced herself to remember that she was alone, but she felt as if she had no will-power left.
A door in front of her opened suddenly, and a man came into the lounge.
When he saw Esther he stopped. The hot colour rushed to his face. He seemed to be waiting for some sign from her. For a moment their eyes met; then, hardly knowing what she did, Esther held out her hand.
“Oh, please,” she said faintly, “oh, please tell me––what I am to do?”
But for the next few minutes she was past remembering anything, though she never really lost consciousness. She only knew that everything was all right now Micky was here––and the sheer relief the knowledge brought with it for the time threw her into a sort of apathy.
Some one took off her hat and the big fur coat that had grown so heavy; some one had bathed her face and unlaced her shoes, and now Micky stood there looking down at her with eyes that hurt, though they smiled.