He had just finished his dinner when the swing doors opened and a man came into the room with a lady in evening dress.
Micky looked at them, and his heart began to race––for the man was Raymond Ashton, and the woman, Tubby Clare’s little widow.
Ashton saw Micky at once, and his face fell into almost comical lines of dismay, but he pulled himself together at once and spoke to the woman beside him.
Micky knew Mrs. Clare slightly; he rose and went towards them.
“I heard you were in Paris,” he said. He shook hands with Mrs. Clare; she was rather a pretty little woman, small and plump, with round, meaningless eyes and a friendly smile.
“We’re going to the opera,” Ashton said. “Mrs. Clare is not staying here, but she very kindly consented to come and dine with me. Are you staying here, Micky? When did you come over?”
“Last night; and I’m not staying here. Just dropped in for some grub.”
“You’d better dine with us,” Ashton said, but he did not sound very enthusiastic.
Micky laughed. “Thanks, but I have dined. I was just leaving when you came in.” He thought of Esther, and his face hardened. This was the man of whom she was thinking all day and every day; this man who was 131 so obviously going to try and marry Tubby Clare’s little widow.
He stood talking to them for a few moments, then excused himself.