“I wonder if it is likely to be any one I know. I have quite an extensive acquaintance in London.”
“Yes,” said Esther. “But I don’t suppose you will know these people, anyway,” she added with an unconscious touch of loftiness in her voice. “The name is Ashton––Mrs. Raymond Ashton.”
There was the barest possible silence before Micky answered, a silence during which the blank dismay and anger that crossed his face would have been amusing had it not also had something of pathos in it.
“Ashton?” he said. “Oh, yes, I know Raymond Ashton very well.” He was watching her with jealous eyes, and she turned her head sharply and looked up at him.
Just for a moment a traitorous eagerness crossed her 107 face; he could almost see the quick question on her lips, then she laughed.
“Really! How funny! But, of course, as you say, you must know a great many people.”
“I have known the Ashtons for years. You will like Mrs. Ashton.”
There was a sort of quiet insinuation in the words, and Esther bit her lip.
“And––the son?” she asked. “I think you said you knew the son.”
“Yes, I know him––he is in Paris, I believe.”