“Micky!” said June indignantly. She flushed all over her face, and her queer eyes blazed angrily. She really felt that she had a done a dreadful thing in having allowed him to guess.
“You needn’t look so upset,” Micky said. “You’ve not told me anything; I knew it long before you did.”
“When? How––oh, Micky, do tell me!”
“There’s nothing to tell. Ashton often spoke about her to me. I knew she was at Eldred’s, and––well that’s all,” he added lamely.
“All!” said June disappointedly. “But surely you know more than that! What do you think of him? Do you think he really cares for her? Oh, Micky, do you think he’s good enough for her?”
Micky looked away.
“I don’t know that it matters very much what I think,” he said drily. “She––she loves him apparently, and that’s all that counts, I imagine.”
“Yes, she loves him right enough,” June admitted gloomily. “It was quite an accident that she told me 163 his name, of course, and she made me promise not to tell any one, particularly you. I suppose because she knows that you and he were friends.”
“Possibly, if she does know. I rather doubt if Ashton said much to her about me, though. He used to keep things to himself a good deal.” He picked up the menu. “Aren’t you going to have anything more to eat? I thought you were hungry.”
“I’m not now; I’m too excited. Micky, when you saw him in Paris, didn’t he say anything, ask you anything? Oh, it all seems so extraordinary!”