lope into the pillar-box.

And so Micky Mellowes posted his first love-letter.

CHAPTER III

In spite of the events of the night Micky Mellowes slept soundly. It
was half-past nine when he woke, to find his man Driver moving
noiselessly about the room.

When he saw that Micky was awake he approached the bed.

"Good-morning, sir, and a happy New Year."

Driver had an expressionless voice; he announced tea or tragedy in
exactly the same tone.

"Eh?" said Micky vacantly; the words opened the door of memory, and he
sat up with a start. It was New Year's Day, and last night ... ye
gods! what had not happened last night? Micky tingled to the tips of
his fingers as he remembered the letter he had written and posted; he
had expected to feel rotten about it in the light of day; it was an
agreeable surprise to find that he did not feel anything of the kind.

When he went in to breakfast there was a pile of letters waiting for
him; he looked them through carelessly--there was one from Marie
Deland, which he opened with a vague feeling of nervousness.

Marie was a nice little girl; he really was quite fond of her, and yet
... surely the days of miracles had not yet passed away, seeing that
in a few short hours his feeling for her had changed from something
warmer to more brotherly affection.

It made him feel uncomfortable to read what she had written; it was
really only quite an ordinary letter of regret that she had not seen
him last night, but Micky imagined he could read more between the
lines.

"... I quite hoped you would drop in, if only for a few moments," so
she wrote. "It's been so dull. I am writing this alone in the
library."

Micky knew that library well; he and she had spent a good deal of time
there together talking sweet nothings; he wondered if he would have
been an engaged man by this time if that relative of the Delands had
not so conveniently died, and if Esther had not chosen his particular
street in which to weep.

He screwed the letter up and tossed it into the fire; he would answer
it some time, or call; there was no immediate hurry. When he had
finished his breakfast he went to his locked desk and took out
Ashton's letter--somehow until he actually saw it again he could not
quite believe that the events of last night had not all been a dream;
but the letter was real enough, at all events with its callous
beginning to "Dear Lallie."

The morning seemed to drag; twice people rang hi