If she had hoped for anything better, it must have been a shock to her to see the bitter disappointment in Micky’s face. He stammered out that he had not expected to see her, that he was in a deuce of a hurry; he hoped she would forgive him, but––
“Micky, by all that’s wonderful!” said another voice, and there was Marie’s father, the good-natured old man who had pretended to agree with his wife when she raved against Micky for the cavalier way in which he had treated his daughter, but who in his heart had indulged in a quiet chuckle, thinking that Micky had been rather clever to escape from the toils at the eleventh hour.
He shook hands with Micky heartily enough; he, at any rate, had no grudge against him. He asked Micky a hundred questions.
“Are you going over, my boy? Come with us. I’ve got a reserved carriage on the Paris express. Delighted to see you. Marie and I are just off for a little holiday by ourselves.”
He touched his daughter’s arm. “Ask him to join us, my dear.”
Micky did his best to answer civilly; he was in the deuce of a hurry, he said again; he had got to meet a friend but had missed her in the crowd.
“I came off in the deuce of a hurry,” he said. He was chafing bitterly at this enforced delay; each moment was so precious.
Marie touched her father’s arm.
“We are only keeping Mr. Mellowes, Daddy....” Something in her voice made Micky’s eyes smart. It was hard luck that for the second time he was forced to humiliate her. He stammered out incoherently that he hoped they would forgive him, but he was in such a deuce of a hurry.... He went off abruptly.