how could any one, reading it, doubt that he loved her? How
could any one, knowing his careful thought for her, believe that he
was the detestable personality June and Micky had described?

She kissed the signature passionately. Nobody in all the world counted
but this one man.

She got up and went over to June's desk, which both girls used; she
felt that she must write to him and tell him how much she wanted him.

When she had finished writing she looked to the head of the paper on
which she had written for the address, and then she saw a postscript
scribbled in a corner which she had not noticed before.

"Don't write to me here--I shall have left this hotel by the time
you get my letter. I will write again as soon as possible."

It was like a door with iron bars being closed in her face; she could
not write after all! She could have no relief for all her longing and
unhappiness; she must just wait and wait, eating her very soul out,
till he wrote again.

She tore up what she had written and threw it into the fire.

"The phantom lover"--June's half playful, half mocking words came back
to her with foreboding. Was he indeed only a phantom lover? Just a
creation of her own brain and desire? She tried to thrust the thought
from her; she was tired and fanciful; in the morning she would be all
right; it was not fair to him, it was not fair to herself to be so
doubting. She went back to June's couch and curled up amongst the
mauve pillows; life was so hard, so disappointing; it gave so little
of all that one desired; the tears fell again, presently she cried
herself to sleep.

June came back on tiptoe; she stole across the room and looked at
Esther, then she went back to the hearthrug to keep Charlie company.

The fire had died down and she replenished it as quietly as she could,
putting a knob on at a time with her fingers.

As she leaned over to poke them softly together she caught sight of a
scrap of paper lying in the grate. It looked like part of a torn
letter, and without thinking June picked it up--the one word "dearest"
stared up at her in Esther's writing.

June looked at it for a long moment, then she turned her head and
glanced at Esther, still sleeping.

June frowned; she hunched her shoulders impatiently.

"More phantom lover, I suppose," she told herself crossly; she threw
the little scrap of paper into the fire and watched it burn with a
sort of vixenish delight.

CHAPTER XII

"I'v