After a moment––
“I suppose I ought to be going,” she said. “Violet will wonder where I am, Micky.” She looked up at him with abashed eyes. “I––I suppose––you wouldn’t––will you come out to tea with me to-morrow?”
Micky’s face reflected the flush in her own; he looked away in miserable embarrassment. He knew that she felt the same towards him as she had done before that memorable New Year’s Eve, and he knew that whatever happened now he could never feel the same to her any more.
He answered that he would be pleased, very pleased. Where should he meet her––or should he call for her?
“I’ll meet you,” she said quickly. “You know where we always used to go––I’ll be there at four, Micky.”
She put out her hand and Micky was forced to take it; he felt how her fingers shook in his, and he cursed himself for a brute as he turned away and left her.
In a way he was glad they had met. Any other woman would have given him the snubbing which he knew he so richly deserved. Deep down in his heart he wished that she had done so; anything would have been easier to meet than this trembling overture of friendship. He knew that the little abashed expression in Marie’s dark eyes could only mean one thing, that he had cut her to the soul and that she still cared for him.
He left the Savoy without having any dinner; he went back to his rooms, where the imperturbable Driver was brushing and refolding his master’s clothes. It had almost broken Driver’s heart to see the way in which Micky had packed his things; he raised eyes of wooden reproach as Micky entered the room.
There was a pile of letters on the table. Micky flicked them through carelessly; nothing of interest––a few bills and a good many invitations; nothing from Esther––not even a note from June.