“I think it’s lovely.” She looked up at him. “I seem to have been climbing a ladder lately,” she said. “Since I left that awful place in the Brixton Road––where I am now is heaps better than that was, but this–––”
Micky was silent. It trembled on his lips to say that everything he had in the world was hers if only she would take it, but he knew the utter futility of it. Money and possessions counted very little with her. She would not have minded the house in the Brixton Road at all with the man she loved.
He went downstairs with her.
“So we’re really friends now?” he said when he bade her good-bye. “And you’ll promise to let me advise you again when you’re not quite sure what you ought to do?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
She flushed nervously.
“It’s kind of you to be interested.” It seemed strange to her that after all that had happened they should have so easily got back to their old footing of friendliness. But Micky was not at all happy. When she had gone he stood for a long time at the window staring moodily out.
When Driver brought lunch, he found Micky poring over a Bradshaw; he spoke to the man with elaborate carelessness.
“You’ll have to take another trip to Paris––to-morrow will do.”
“Yes sir.” Driver smoothed a crease in the cloth. “To post another letter, sir?” he asked expressionlessly.