an, 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.

Micky swore.

"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.

And so the days dragged away.

"Any more posts to-night?" Micky asked jerkily, on the second day.

Driver eyed the clock.

"There should be one at nine, sir."

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?"

"Yes, sir," said Driver imperturbably.

He hesitated, then asked--

"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.

"I shan't come back till the autumn anyway," he declared recklessly.

"Very good, sir," was the stolid reply. Driver knew his master; he
could remember another occasion when Micky had left London in a rage
never to return, and ten days had seen him back again.

Certainly this was rather a different case from that other; this time
there was a woman