Micky sat down on the edge of the table and stuck his long legs out before him. He kept his eyes fixed on his boots as he answered––
“Well, I should like a place in the country, as I said, and a garden––a ripping garden, with lots of roses and grass––walks like you see in old-fashioned pictures, and a high box hedge––that’s one of the things I simply must have! Have you ever smelt a box hedge after a hot sun has been on it? No? well, you ought to; it’s fine!”
He paused reflectively.
“I should like to look after the roses myself, I think,” he went on presently. “I dare say I should make a mess of it, but I should like to have a try, anyway. And I should like to keep lots of animals, horses and dogs and chickens. Do you know”––he half turned to her––“I’ve always had a fancy for great Danes––you can’t keep ’em in town, only in the country. Some people I once stayed with down in Lincoln had a couple––ripping dogs they were––almost as big as ponies, and they used to let the kids play with them and pull them about. Old Lancing had a boy, you know––a ripping little kid of five––a real sport he was, too––Uncle Micky he used to call me.” Micky chuckled reminiscently. “It must be jolly fine to have a youngster of your own like that,” he added.
This was a new Micky, indeed! Esther watched him with fascinated eyes. She had not known that he was 211 fond of children; she had taken it for granted that men hardly ever were. She supposed drearily that she had got that idea from Raymond. He had always said he would not stand “kids.” It was odd that, though Micky had used the same word, it had sounded somehow quite different when he said it.
Micky raised his eyes suddenly. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She shook her head; her lip quivered a little.
Micky half rose to go to her, when the two men who owned the second car came back into the room again. Micky turned on his heel.
“I suppose we ought to be getting on,” he said constrainedly. “I’ll go and start up; you stay here.”
He went out, leaving Esther by the fire.