Micky stooped to examine the collar; his face was red when, after a moment, he looked up again.
“Esther declares she never told him we’d got a cat,” June told him doubtfully. “But, of course, she must have done so or else the man’s got second sight.”
Micky was drinking his tea; he choked suddenly.
A feeling of panic closed upon him. Never told him she’d got a cat! of course she hadn’t! What a fool he had been to make such a blunder––what an utter blockhead.
“I expect she did tell him,” he managed to say.
“Yes, that’s what I think.” June lit a cigarette and passed the lighted match over to Micky.
“Anyway, Esther goes about the place singing all day,” she added drily. “There’s no doubt at all that she’s up in the seventh heaven of happiness. Reams of letters the man writes her. Perhaps, as the novels tell us, love is a wonderful thing–––” She looked at Micky with a comical expression in her queer eyes. “I should say it must be if it’s reformed that man,” she added cynically.
Micky said nothing. He had been very uncomfortable about things during the last few days. As far as he could find out, Ashton had not yet been married. Supposing it had all been bluff when he said he was going to be married––supposing he turned up again in London?
Micky stayed as long as he could in case Esther came in; it was only when he began to feel sure that June knew why he was dragging his visit to such a length that he said he ought to be going.