“I am honoured that you came,” said Micky gravely. Her eyes fell before his.
“And––and you won’t tell June?” she appealed.
He smiled rather sadly.
“I am not likely ever to tell any one,” he said.
“No, I know. Mr. Mellowes”––she held out her hand to him suddenly, her fair face flushing––“I should like to take back something I said to you one day. Perhaps you don’t remember, but I do, and lately––especially since last night, when you were so kind––I’ve felt that I wasn’t just to you; and so ... if you will forgive me, I should like to be friends with you after all.”
She was crimson by the time she had finished, but Micky took her hand without answering, held it for a moment, then let it go.
“I suppose I mustn’t offer you anything?” he said with forced lightness. “No coffee––or tea? It’s cold out this morning. If you would care for anything, my man would bring it at once.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“I don’t want anything, thank you.” She looked round at Micky’s luxuriously furnished room. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked him.
He smiled. “Do you like it? I am glad.”