to sleep.

"I thought it must be you," Raymond was saying nervously. "And yet I
could not be sure. Somehow I never thought of you and Paris as being
in any way compatible, and yet----" He broke off; it had been on the
tip of his tongue to say that she had never looked sweeter or more
desirable.

His overwhelming conceit suddenly woke the wish in his heart to know
if she still cared, or if she had forgotten him, and a little flush
crossed his face and his eyes grew tender as they met the tragedy of
hers; he looked hastily round.

"We can't talk here. Will you come to a cafe? There is so much I
should like to say to you. When did you come over? What are you doing
here?"

They were walking slowly along, the man's head bent ardently towards
her.

He had once told Micky that this girl was the only woman he had ever
loved, and perhaps it was right--as he accounted love.

He took her to a cafe--one where there would be nobody likely to
recognise him; he ordered coffee and biscuits.

"Now we can talk undisturbed," he said; he moved his chair closer to
Esther's--he laid his hand on hers.

She did not move or try to evade his touch; she just looked down at
his hand for a moment and then up at the handsome face which had for
so long meant all the world to her.

"I never thought we should meet again here of all places," he said in
his soft voice. "How long ago does it seem to you since we said
good-bye?"

She could not answer, but the thought floated through her mind that
they never had said good-bye, that he had just walked out of her life
and stayed away until this moment, when fate had thrown them
together.

"If you knew how often I have thought about you," he said.

"Did you get my letter, Lallie? The one I wrote on New Year's Eve--and
the money? I sent you some money."

A swift flush dyed her cheeks; she raised her eyes.

That had been his letter then, after all--Micky had lied to her; she
caught her breath on a little gasp.

"Yes," she said faintly. "Yes--yes, I got it--thank you."

"I've often thought since that I might have written you a kinder
letter," he said after a moment. "But everything had gone wrong
then--the mater cut up rough--and I was up to my eyes in debt. It was
the best thing for both of us to put an end to it, don't you think it
was? You used to say that you wouldn't mind being poor, but in the end
you'd have hated it as much as I should." He paused as if expecting
her to speak, but sh