“Very well, then, I’ll make one for you.” He refilled her glass and handed it to her. “Now say after me: ‘I 13 resolve that during the coming year I will be good friends with Micky Mellowes–––’ Oh, I say, don’t––please don’t....”
She had dropped her face in her hands again, and Micky had a miserable conviction that she was crying.
But he was wrong, for presently she looked up again, and her eyes were dry, though a little hard and bright.
“I don’t believe in a man’s friendship for a woman,” she said. “But I’ll say it, if you like,” and she took the glass from his hand.
“And to-morrow,” said Micky presently, “I’m going to take you out to tea or something––if I may,” he added hurriedly.
He waited, but she did not speak. “May I?” he asked.
She was twisting the stem of her wineglass nervously; after a moment she began to speak jerkily.
“When I came out to-night I didn’t mean to go back any more,” she said. Her voice was low and full of a weary bitterness. “I was so unhappy I didn’t want to live.” She caught her breath. “If it hadn’t been for you”––she was looking at him now with shame in her eyes. “If it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have gone back––ever–––” she added. “But now....”
“But now,” said Micky as she paused, “you’re going back, and we’re going to start the new year––friends, you and I! Is that a bargain?” he asked.
“Yes....”