“Yes, thank you,” she said, but her voice did not sound very enthusiastic. Presently: “Mr. Mellowes,” she said suddenly, “do you know that I have always been sorry that I did not go to Paris that day when I wanted to?––I wish I had now.”
“Why now?” Micky asked.
She gave a little troubled laugh.
“I don’t know. I really can’t explain.” She did not understand herself what she really meant, but last night when she had read Raymond’s letter, it had suddenly come over her with a sickening feeling of dismay that in some indefinite way he was really getting to be what June had always called him––a phantom lover! It seemed so long since she had seen him. After all, what were letters and words? But she could not explain this to Micky.
“I think I know what you mean,” he said after a moment. “You are getting tired of this separation. Is that it? Letters are all very well, but they are not enough....”
She looked up at him in surprise.
“Why, that is just what I do mean? How did you know?”
He laughed rather ruefully.
“Perhaps I’ve felt like it myself,” he said.
“Have you?” There was a little note of wonderment in her voice.