She smiled tremulously, reading the distress in his eyes.
“I thought I was never going to see you any more,” she said. She tried hard to speak casually, but her voice quivered a little. “Where have you been hiding all this time, Micky?”
Micky stammered out that he really didn’t know––that he’d only just come back from Paris––that he did call to see her one night, but that they told him she wasn’t in. She broke in there impetuously––
“I know; I’m so sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I was there all the time. Mother–––” She stopped, biting her lip, but there was no need to explain further. Micky could well imagine that it was by Mrs. Deland’s orders that the butler had said “Not at home.”
His heart was full of remorse as he looked down at Marie. Such a little while ago he had thought of her as his wife. He had fully meant to marry her.
He broke out again agitatedly––
“I know you must think I’m an awful sweep. I––I––oh, I can’t explain.” He glanced past her to where the rather vapid-looking youth to whom she had been speaking sat tugging at an incipient moustache.
“What are you doing here?” he asked again. “Who are you with?”
She told him that she was with her married sister and some friends.
“We’re going to have dinner here,” she said. She was longing to ask Micky to dine with them, but was obviously afraid to do so.