“Yes. I should have told June only––only she isn’t very sympathetic. You see”––she smiled faintly––“she hates my ‘phantom lover,’ as she calls him, and so––so I know she would only do her best to keep me from going to him; but you–––”
“I am afraid,” said Micky quietly, “that I shall try and do the same thing.”
He turned and looked at her squarely.
“You’ve never been to Paris,” he said, “and probably you can’t speak a word of French. You’ve probably never travelled any distance alone. Miss Shepstone, it’s impossible for you to go. I am only advising you for your own good. Why not write to––to––your fiancé and ask him to make arrangements for you?”
He broke off helplessly. The poor little letter in which she had already done so lay in his pocket at that moment.
It turned him sick to think of the tissue of lies and deceit his own actions were forcing upon him.
“I––I have asked him,” she said almost in a whisper, “but he said he couldn’t have me––then! But that’s quite a long time ago,” she added hopefully. “And I thought if he saw me––if I got there and surprised him–––”
Micky turned away. He could imagine so well what would happen if indeed she found Ashton. He walked over to the window and stood looking into the street with unseeing eyes.
“Have a little patience,” he said presently. “Take my advice and stay here. If he––if he can, he will send for you, I am sure.” She looked up quickly, a spark of anger in her eyes.