She got up from the stairs and led the way across the hall.
“There’s the drawing-room. Nobody uses it now because it’s so cold.” She opened the door and peeped in. “There’s nobody there.”
Micky followed her, shutting the door behind him. The room was chilly and uninviting, with a lofty ceiling and a hideous wallpaper. There was a gas stove at the far end of the room, turned very low, and hissing softly as if in protest.
June knelt down and turned the tap on to its fullest extent.
“The thing is,” Micky said hurriedly, “what are we 194 going to do? If she stays in London, she’s bound to hear about it. All the papers will be full of it to-morrow. They’ll probably publish his confounded portrait. Can’t you get her out of London? We’ve got to do something.”
June did not look at him. The odd little twinge of jealousy tore her heart again. Even though she did not love Micky, she quite realised what she was losing. After all it must be a very beautiful thing to be cared for as Micky cared for Esther.
She raised her eyes with a little ghost of a smile.
“I’ll do anything I can, Micky. If you’ve got anything to suggest–––”
“I thought out crowds of plans coming along in the cab, but they’re all rotten,” Micky admitted dolefully. “I thought you’d be able to help me. Can’t you be called off to a relative in the country or something, and ask Miss Shepstone to go with you?”
June started up.