t. Lazare and had been there
thousands of times before.

But her heart was beating up in her throat, and she would have given a
great deal, had it been compatible with dignity, to rush after him and
beg him to stay.

She wandered out of the station, not knowing where to go, Raymond
seemed to have faded into the background; she only thought of him
subconsciously; it was the figure of Micky Mellowes that worried
her--she could not forget him.

Supposing he had really written those letters? "But he didn't," she
told herself in an agony. "I know he didn't."

She took one of the letters from her suit-case and stared at the
handwriting--Raymond's writing. The whole thing was too preposterous.

She did not know what she meant to do, or where she meant to go; it no
longer seemed that she had come here for any specific purpose.

The early morning greyness and chilliness had faded; the sun had risen
and cleared away the mists.

She found herself in some gardens where an elderly man was feeding
sparrows; she sat down on a bench and watched him.

It seemed years ago that she went down to Enmore with June--since she
sat in the little inn with Micky and heard those two men talking.

The hot blood beat into her cheeks as she remembered something that
for the moment she had forgotten--that Raymond Ashton was married!

The man gave the sparrows his last crumbs and went away. The little
brown birds came hopping to Esther's feet, looking up at her with
bright, eager eyes, as if expecting her to supply a further meal.

The sun faded and went in, and a few drops of rain came pattering
down. She rose and began to walk on slowly. The light suit-case seemed
to have grown heavy since yesterday.

At the back of her mind was the frightened knowledge that she was
alone in Paris; that she had nobody to turn to now that Micky had
deserted her; but as yet it was only in the background. Raymond was
somewhere, perhaps quite close; but she no longer felt that she wanted
to go to him.

Further on she found another bench sheltered under some trees and sat
down again; she opened the suit-case and took out a bundle of Micky's
letters ... Micky's! No, Raymond's.... Oh, whose letters were they?

She opened the one that had been written from the hotel in Paris. Its
fond words seemed to take on a new meaning....

"Some day, if all that I wish for comes true, I will tell you the many
things you would not let me say when we were last together...