“I’m dashed if I know what you’re driving at,” he said sulkily. “If you like to take Lallie to theatres, that’s your business; she’s a nice little girl, I admit, but–––”
Micky took a step forward.
“If you want to make me forget that this is your mother’s house, you’re going the right way to do it,” he said between his teeth. “And I don’t want any of your bluff. Miss Shepstone thinks she saw you at the Comedy to-night; she’ll probably write to you or try to see you in the morning, and you’ve got to be out of London by then––do you hear?”
Ashton laughed; he shrugged his shoulders.
“Must?” he said nastily. “How long have you been Lallie’s champion?... Oh, all right, all right,” he broke off hurriedly, as he saw the ugly light in Micky’s eyes. “But it’s a bit thick, you know,” he resumed injuredly. “I’ve done with her; you know that. You sent my letter on to her yourself. It’s absurd if I can’t come back home for a few days in case she should see me and get upset. I’m sorry if she’s still fond of me, but, dash it all–––”
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Micky again.
He was controlling himself with a mighty effort, but the veins stood out like cords on his forehead and his hands were clenched.
The two men looked at one another, and it was Ashton’s eyes that fell.
“If you’re going to bullyrag me....” he began blusteringly, “I may as well tell you that I’m not going back to Paris till I please, and–––”
“Very well,” said Micky. He turned on his heel.