He laughed ruefully.
“I was nearer hating you then than ever in my life.”
He saw the colour creep into her face. “You’ve told me ever so many times that you hated me,” he went on quickly, “but you never told me that you ... loved me, Esther!”
He waited, but she did not look at him.
Then suddenly she took his hand in both of hers; she bent her head and kissed it with a sort of passionate gratitude that brought a mist to Micky’s eyes. He seemed to see her all at once as he had first seen her that New 305 Year’s Eve; alone, unhappy––with nobody to care what she did, or what became of her.
“You’re so much, much too good for me,” she said brokenly. “You’ve done everything for me, and I’ve done nothing for you––I haven’t even been ... nice! I can’t tell you what I feel about it all––I only know that––just lately––you’ve––you’ve made everything seem so different––since you wrote me that letter––it makes me feel in my heart that it’s always really been you––always you, and never ... never any one else.”
“Darling,” said Micky huskily. “And perhaps––some day––do you ... do you ... think ... you could ever care for me more than ... than you cared for ... that other fellow, confound him!” he added fiercely.
She looked up at him and smiled.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that I only ... only really began to care for––him––when he went away––and when those letters began to come; and so you see––it was always you, because it was you who wrote them.”
“It was a rotten thing to do, but I wanted to help you.”