“Yes, and she’s desperately anxious for me to take it, too. It’s quite a good offer, but it means leaving here and living in; and I don’t believe I want to leave here,” she added ruefully.
June looked dismayed.
“I shan’t let you go,” she said promptly. “Just as we are settling down so cosily.” She put her white hands over her ears. “No, I don’t want to hear another thing about it, if that’s it,” she said. “I shan’t listen––write and refuse it––write and refuse it at once.”
Esther laughed; she pulled June’s hands down and held them firmly.
“Tell me,” she said. “Do you know any people named Ashton?”
She was longing to find out if June did know them; it seemed such a lifetime since she had seen Raymond or spoken to him, she was hungry to hear him spoken of, even if only by this woman who probably had merely known him as an ordinary acquaintance.
“Ashton!” June wrinkled up her nose. “I know some Ashtons who live in Brayanstone Square,” she said at last. “A mother and son. A very handsome woman she is, with white hair, she has a sort of grande dame look about her––the sort of woman you can imagine in a powdered wig and a crinoline, curtsying to the queen.” She scrambled up, and, snatching a paper fan from the shelf, swept Esther a graceful curtsy to illustrate her meaning.
But Esther was too much in earnest to be amused.
“It must be the same Mrs. Ashton,” she said eagerly. “This is her card––she gave it to me to-day––Mrs. Raymond Ashton.”