June’s eyes sparkled; she jumped up from her chair, put her arms around Micky’s neck, and gave him a sounding kiss.
“You’re a dear,” she said, “and I just love you!”
Esther glanced up quickly. June need not have done that, she thought with a touch of irritation, but Micky only laughed.
“Come here and you shall have that back with compound interest,” he said, but June shook her head.
“That’s enough for to-day, and Esther’s looking shocked to death.”
“I’m not––I never thought about it,” Esther protested indignantly. June laughed.
“Well, you looked angry anyway,” she declared. “Didn’t she, Micky?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice,” he answered coolly, but he had, and for a moment his pulses had leapt at sight of the anger in Esther’s eyes; she could not surely hate him as much as she pretended if it annoyed her that June should kiss him.
But she was indifferent enough now at all events; she was leaning back listlessly, her eyes fixed on the flames, her face sad and thoughtful.
She was thinking about Ashton, Micky told himself savagely, wishing he were here, no doubt––Ashton, who even at that moment was probably running round Paris with Tubby Clare’s little widow.