“Shall I open it, sir?” he asked, as Micky did not speak.
Micky started.
“Yes; oh, yes––open it. What the dickens is it? I haven’t ordered anything.”
Driver said that he did not know––that it had been left by a messenger. He untied the knotted string with neat precision, and rolled it into a ball before he removed the paper.
Micky walked up to the table and lifted the lid with faint curiosity.
“A fur coat,” he said blankly. “A fur–––” He stopped. 276 For a moment he stood staring down into the box, then he let the lid fall over it again.
“All right––you can go,” he said.
Driver walked to the door stoically, and Micky went back to the fire.
So she would not even keep the fur coat! She cared so little for him that she must needs send back his paltry gifts. What a fool he was to care––what a fool!
Driver, coming back for a moment, stopped petrified in the doorway. Micky was standing by the mantelpiece with his face buried in his arms.