“This morning––was it only this morning?––it seems so long ago.” She stopped for a moment, then went on again slowly. “When we were at that inn in the village––those men with the car––I heard them talking....” She stopped again.
“Yes,” said Micky.
She frowned as if his monosyllable had interrupted her train of thought. She went on presently––
“They were talking about Paris––and Raymond.” And now she raised her eyes. “If you say that it was true what I heard them say, I will kill you,” she said with sudden passion. “It’s a lie––just a lie to hurt me, to hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.” She stopped, 234 panting. “It’s a lie––say it’s a lie,” she drove the words at him.
Micky sat down beside her.
“If they said that Ashton had been married in Paris to Mrs. Clare it was the truth,” he said.
He marvelled at the steadiness of his voice. He felt sick with shame at the part he was having to play. He went on incoherently––
“I knew it before you ever went to Enmore––it was in the London papers. I was afraid you would see it. I persuaded June to get you down into the country. I suppose I was a fool. I ought to have known it was only putting things off.”
He looked at her and quickly away again.
“Forget him, Esther, for God’s sake. He never cared for you; he isn’t worth a thought.”