He went over to his desk and took up paper and pen; he spread Ashton’s letter out before him and studied the writing carefully.
Ordinary sort of writing, rather unformed and sprawly, but after a trial run Micky managed a very presentable copy of it.
He sat back in his chair and eyed his handiwork with pride; he had missed his vocation, he told himself with a chuckle; he ought to have been a forger.
Then he dipped the pen in the ink again and squared his elbows. He had never written a love-letter in his life, but he knew positively that he was about to write one now.
He thought of Esther and the wistfulness of her grey eyes; she was the girl whom a man could love. He coloured a little as the thought involuntarily crossed his mind; she was a girl whom––he began to write rapidly.
“My darling little girl–––”
Micky was naturally rather eloquent with his pen, though he had never before tried it in this especial direction.
“This is the most difficult letter I have ever had to write in all my life; first, because I love you so much; and, secondly, because I am afraid it is going to hurt you nearly as much as it hurts me. Dear, as it will be some time before I see you again, and because I cannot explain everything to you, I am going to ask you to trust me till we meet again. I am leaving England to-night....”
Micky paused and ran his fingers through his hair agitatedly before he struggled on once more: “I shall be thinking of you every minute till we meet again, and of the happy times we have had together. I will write to you whenever I can....” The pen paused, and Micky groaned, recalling that Ashton had said he should not write at all.