Charlie had been her only friend then. Was he all that was to remain to her now?
"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly; but Esther only shook her head.
For two days Micky Mellowes never left his rooms, and hardly ate a thing, and for once in his life Driver permitted a spark of anxiety to creep into his dull eyes. He was sure that his master was ill; he tried tempting dishes and alluring cocktails, but Micky refused them all.
"My good man, I'm not an invalid," he protested irritably.
He hated it, because he knew his agitation was apparent; he tried to settle to read, but whenever a bell rang through the house he started up with racing pulses.
She must have got his letter, he knew. If there was any hope for him at all she would write at once or send for him. His nerves began to wear to rags.
Sometimes his hopes soared to the skies, to drop to zero again. Once in a fit of despondency he told Driver to pack his bag, as they would be leaving early in the morning.
"Yes, sir--where shall we be going, sir?" Driver asked stoically.
"You do ask such damned silly questions," he complained irritably.
An hour later, when he found Driver packing, he called him a fool, and told him to unpack at once.
"Any more posts to-night?" Micky asked jerkily, on the second day.
But nine came, and half-past, and no post.
"Is it too late for the post now, Driver?" Micky asked feverishly, when it was nearly ten.
"The post went by, sir," was the answer. "I was down at the door and saw the postman pass."
Micky went back to his chair. It was all he could expect, he told himself--there had been no answer to his letter: there never would be an answer now.
When Driver came into the room again, Micky said without looking up--
"Pack that bag again, there's a good fellow, will you?"
"And--er--where did you say we should be going, sir?"
"I didn't say," said Micky. "And I don't care--on the Continent--anywhere you like--look up some hotels...."
One place was as good as another, he argued, as he sat and watched Driver pack. Wherever he went he was going to be infernally miserable, so what did it matter?
When Driver stoically inquired how long he expected to be away, Micky answered violently that he was never coming back if he could help it; he said he hated London--he said he was sick to death of his flat and wanted a change.