Micky laughed to himself as he went down the stairs; he wondered if he was getting clever, or if June was not so quick to see a thing as he had believed, that she had not noticed the constraint between himself and Esther.
He looked about him eagerly as he went out, hoping to catch a glimpse of Esther, but the house seemed deserted, quite different from what he had pictured it to be. He had always thought that a London boarding-house must be noisy and crowded and perpetually smelling of soap and cabbage water; he was relieved to find that this was fairly comfortable and quiet.
He picked up a taxicab at the corner of the road and was driven back to his flat. He felt very depressed. Everybody seemed to have interests in life except himself. He wished he had got married years ago and settled down. He thought of Marie Deland with remorseful affection. Here was another woman who must be thinking him a positive outsider. How in the world did a man put an end to a flirtation that was growing rapidly into something else without hurting a woman’s feelings, he wondered.
Ashton had accomplished it quite successfully several times. Micky sighed, and let himself into his flat.
There were several letters lying on the table; he flicked them through disinterestedly; then he stopped––the last one was from Ashton.
Micky stood for quite a minute staring down at the handwriting, which he had been at such pains to copy. Then he ripped open the envelope.
Ashton wrote from Paris:––
“Dear Mickey,––Just a line to send you my address, as promised. Hope things are going well with you. I am staying on here for the present, as I have run up against Maisie Clare––you remember her, Tubby Clare’s little widow? My son, she’s got pots of money, and at the present moment things are looking promising! The mater would be pleased if I could manage to pull it off. By the way, I dare say Driver told you I met him the other day––he was very mysterious and hadn’t a word to say! Surely he wasn’t joy-riding over here by himself? Remember me to every one.––Yours, R. F. Ashton.”
And not one word about Esther! Not a single mention of the girl who was thinking of him night and day, and only living to see him again.