Micky was sitting straddle-ways across a chair between the two girls, and Esther had drawn back a little so that her face was in shadow. Micky glanced at her once, but could only see the glint of firelight on her hair and her hands clasped listlessly in the lap of her frock. He glanced at them; she still wore Ashton’s ring, with its three inferior stones; he wondered how long the farce was going to be kept up and what would happen to bring it to an end.
“If some one doesn’t talk,” June said drowsily, “I shall go to sleep.”
There was a quiet peacefulness in the cosy little room. Micky crossed his arms on the chair back and leaned his chin on them, staring into the fire, and Esther, from her place in the shadows, looked at him unobserved.
Not in the least good-looking, she told herself again, and yet in common fairness she had to admit to herself that there was something about Micky Mellowes that was undeniably attractive.
She liked the obstinacy of his chin––she liked the way his hair grew, and the shape of his hands––strong, manly hands they were, in spite of the fact that they had probably never done a day’s useful work in their lives. Of course he was too well dressed. To begin with, there was no need to wear grey spats over his shoes, or to have his trousers so immaculately creased. She forgot that she had liked Ashton to indulge in both these weaknesses.
Micky was whistling a snatch of a love-song under his breath. Esther did not know what it was; she had never heard the melody before, but something in the softly sentimental notes brought the tears to her eyes; before she was aware of it they were tumbling down fast.
June sprang suddenly to her feet.
“Why are we all mooning like this? Micky, give me a match.” She almost snatched the box from him and lit the gas; the yellow flare flooded the room. Micky, glancing at Esther, saw the tears on her cheeks and the way she averted her head.
He scowled and rose to his feet, standing so that his tall figure shielded her.