He flushed crimson, he tried to make some excuse.
“Another time.... You’re tired. I’ll come back presently. You ought to get some rest if we’re to go back to-night.”
“No,” she said. “It must be now.”
He shut the door, but he kept as far away from her as possible, standing over by the window that looked into the dreary winter garden.
There was something implacable about his tall figure.
“Oh, won’t you come here?” she said.
He obeyed at once. He rested an elbow on the mantelshelf and kept his eyes fixed on the fire.
There as a little silence, then Esther said, almost in a whisper:
“I want to beg your pardon. I hope you will––will try and forgive me.”
Micky did not move.