cumstances to herself; perhaps he had guessed that
she would never have allowed him to pay for her supper or tea, or have
talked to her as he had done, if she had known him to be a rich man.

She need never see him again, that was one thing; her heart hardened
as she met the frankness of his pictured eyes; he was not as honest as
he looked.

She had mistaken condescension for kindness. She bit her lip with
mortification as she recalled the confidence she had made to him only
that afternoon. He was probably laughing at it now, and no doubt would
repeat all she had said to his friends as a good joke.

She went to her own room as soon as she had had the coffee. She made
the excuse that she was tired, but when she went upstairs she sat down
on the side of the bed and made no effort to undress. A sort of shadow
seemed to have fallen on her spirits. She felt mortified that Micky
should so deliberately have lied to her; her cheeks burned as she
thought of the despair she had been in last night when she met him.
She hoped she would never see him again.

She looked round the little room with angry eyes. If only Fate had set
her feet in sunnier paths. She looked at the plain furniture and cheap
carpet; the wallpaper was hideous; there was a frightful oleograph of
two Early Victorian women with crinolines and ringlet curls hanging
over the mantlepiece. They both looked smug and self-satisfied. There
was an enlarged photograph of a bald-headed man wearing a Masonic
apron on another wall. He was fat and had his right hand plastered
carefully along a chair-back to bring into prominence a large signet
ring. Esther looked at him and shivered. She felt utterly alone and
cut off from the world. She longed for Raymond Ashton with all her
soul. She hated Micky Mellowes because his kindly condescension had
made her feel her position more acutely now she knew him to be what he
was.

In spite of the new friend she had made in June Mason she felt lonely
and unwanted; she began to cry like a child, as she sat there on the
side of the iron bedstead; the tears ran down her cheeks and she made
no effort to wipe them away.

She wanted to be happy so badly, and it seemed as if she never was to
be happy. The elation that had come to her when she read Micky's
letter that morning had faded miserably; after all, what was a letter
when it was a real, living personality she wanted, and not mere
words?

Downstairs she could hear June Mason moving