Micky was conscious of a queer tightening about his throat; it was a tremendous effort to force himself to speak lightly.
“And shall I like him as well, do you think?” Esther asked deliberately.
Micky did not answer.
“Do you like him?” she persisted.
Micky’s restraint broke its bonds; if he had died for it he could not have checked the words that rushed to his lips.
“I detest the fellow!” he said. “He’s a beastly outsider!”
He dared not look at her. He held his breath, waiting for the storm to break, but if he had lost his self-control she kept hers admirably.
“Really,” she said. Her voice was a little breathless, but quite calm. “What does a man mean when he calls another man––such a name?”
Her face was quite colourless, even to the lips, and her hands were clenched in the shabbiness of the cheap little muff she carried.
He blunderingly tried to make amends.