The Phantom Lover Part 2

She laughed; she leaned her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, looking at him with thoughtful eyes.

"Are you poor?" she asked with disarming frankness.

"Poor as a church mouse," said Micky promptly. "At least"--he hastened to amend his words--"I'm one of those unfortunate beggars who spend money as fast as they get it. I've never saved a halfpenny in my life."

This at least was the truth.

She nodded.

"Neither have I--I've never had one to save...."

The despondency was back again in her voice; Micky broke in hastily--

"Before we go any further I think we ought to know one another's names." He fumbled in a pocket for a card, but changed his mind quickly, remembering that his cards bore the address of the expensive flat which he honoured with his presence. "My name is Mellowes," he said. "I've got several Christian names as well, but people call me Micky...." He waited, looking at her expectantly. "Won't you tell me yours?" he asked.

She was staring down at her plate. He could see the dark fringe of lashes against her cheeks. Suddenly she looked up.

"Why do you want to know my name? We shall never meet again, I----"

Micky leaned a little forward.

"If we don't," he said quietly, "it will be the greatest disappointment I have ever had."

She looked at him with a sort of fear.

"You don't mean that," she said, with a catch in her voice. "You don't really mean that ... you're just one of those men who say things like that to every woman you----" She broke off, struck by the chagrin in Micky's face. "No--I oughtn't to have said that," she went on hurriedly. "I beg your pardon ... I ought not to have said it, and I will tell you my name if you really want to know. My name is Esther--Esther Shepstone."

"Thank you!" said Micky. "And now we're going to drink to good resolutions for the New Year ... have you made one yet?"

She shook her head.

"What's the use? Besides ... I don't want to make any."

"Very well, then, I'll make one for you." He refilled her gla.s.s and handed it to her. "Now say after me: 'I resolve that during the coming year I will be good friends with Micky Mellowes----' Oh, I say, don't--please don't...."

She had dropped her face in her hands again, and Micky had a miserable conviction that she was crying.

But he was wrong, for presently she looked up again, and her eyes were dry, though a little hard and bright.

"I don't believe in a man's friends.h.i.+p for a woman," she said. "But I'll say it, if you like," and she took the gla.s.s from his hand.

"And to-morrow," said Micky presently, "I'm going to take you out to tea or something--if I may," he added hurriedly.

He waited, but she did not speak. "May I?" he asked.

She was twisting the stem of her winegla.s.s nervously; after a moment she began to speak jerkily.

"When I came out to-night I didn't mean to go back any more," she said. Her voice was low and full of a weary bitterness. "I was so unhappy I didn't want to live." She caught her breath. "If it hadn't been for you"--she was looking at him now with shame in her eyes. "If it hadn't been for you I shouldn't have gone back--ever----" she added. "But now...."

"But now," said Micky as she paused, "you're going back, and we're going to start the new year--friends, you and I! Is that a bargain?"

he asked.

"Yes...."

Outside Micky hailed a taxicab.

"You're much too tired to walk," he said when she protested. "And it will be a new experience for Charlie," he added with a twinkle.

He put her into the cab, and stood for a moment at the door.

"And the address?" he asked.

She hesitated, looking away from him; then suddenly she told him.

"It's Brixton Road--it's--it's a very horrid boarding-house," she added with a half-sigh.

"Boarding-houses are all horrid," said Micky cheerily. "But I'll come down myself to-morrow and see how bad it really is."

He tried to see her face.

"Shall you be in if I come in the afternoon?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes."

"About four, then," said Micky. He groped for her hand, found it, and pressed it. "Good-night," he said.

"Good-night."

And the next moment Micky was alone in the starlight.

He stood looking after the taxi with a queer sense of unreality. Had he just dreamt it all, and was there really no such girl as Esther Shepstone? No Charlie? He shook himself together with a laugh. Of course it was real, all of it! He walked on soberly through the cold night.

To-morrow he would go to the very horrid boarding-house in the Brixton Road and see her again.

Esther! He liked her name; there was something quaint and old-world about it. It seemed impossible that they had only met a few hours ago.

His headache had quite vanished. He was whistling a s.n.a.t.c.h of song when he let himself into the house and went upstairs.

He opened the door of his sitting-room, and then stopped dead on the threshold. The lights were burning fully, and a man was ensconced in his favourite armchair by the fire--Ashton. Lord! he had forgotten all about Ashton.

Micky looked guiltily at the clock--nearly eleven!--he began a half-apology.

"Awfully sorry, old man--I was kept.... Been waiting long?"

"I got here at ten."

Ashton climbed out of the chair and looked at Micky with a sort of shamefacedness.