fectly obvious that you hate one another,
and I cannot see why for the life of me."

"One of your instinctive hates, perhaps," Micky submitted, with a
touch of irony. He went back to the chair.

"Miss Shepstone tells me she has found a berth," he said, after a
moment. June nodded.

"Yes. Did she tell you with whom?"

"Yes; Mrs. Ashton."

Something in the tone of his voice made June look up quickly.

"Well?" she said.

Micky shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing--I dared to suggest that perhaps she would not like the
place, and she flew at me."

June laughed.

"That's just like Esther; she asks for your advice, and then----"

"She didn't ask for mine," Micky cut in. "I very kindly volunteered
the information."

"Oh!" June was on her knees now toasting buns.

"They're stale," she informed Micky candidly. "But you won't know it
when they're toasted."

Micky watched in silence. He was wondering if June had heard anything
of his conversation with Esther; they had both spoken rather loudly.
He was also wondering whether he should tell June the whole story.

"You must make allowances for her," June said briskly, as he was still
hesitating. "I know she's worried about this man. I discovered another
thing this morning, Micky"--she turned with a sudden jerk to look at
him, and the bun fell off the fork into the fire.

Micky laughed.

"Well, what have you discovered now?" he inquired.

"Why, that she can't write to him--he doesn't give her an address--or,
if he does, he takes good care to move on before she has time to
answer his letters. It looks to me, Micky, as if that young man is
shirking his responsibilities. If you ask my candid opinion, Esther
won't ever see him again."

Micky said "Rot!" rather uncomfortably. "If the fellow is
travelling--moving about...."

"He could give her an address and have the letters sent on, couldn't
he?" June demanded.

Micky rubbed his chin.

"What's she want to write to him for?" he asked presently.

June swung round, and a second bun almost shared the fate of the
first, but she grabbed it back in time.

"What does she want to write to him for?" she echoed with scorn. "My
poor child, what does any one want to write to any one for? She's in
love with the man, and when you're in love you simply have to write it
down--at least, that's what I understand from people with wide
experience. Esther's bursting to write and tell the phantom lover how
much she loves him and wh