Marie’s eyes dilated.
“Father and I crossed by the same boat as he did,” she said with an effort. “He was alone then–––”
Ashton laughed detestably. “Ah, but not afterwards,” he said––then checked himself. “But I forgot. I must not tell tales out of school, only as every one seems to have learned of his penchant for the little lady from Eldred’s”––he laughed lightly.
Marie stood staring down the long ballroom. The colour slowly faded from her cheeks, leaving her as white as her frock. She looked at Ashton, intent on a crease in his glove, and she broke out stammering:
“How dare you say such a thing! I don’t believe you––in Paris––Micky–––”
He raised his brows with assumed surprise.
“I’m sorry––perhaps I should not have spoken––but I thought every one knew–––”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course it may be a mistake, but I happen to know the lady in question slightly––through Mellowes––and it was she who told me.... I am sorry if my carelessness has pained you––excuse me, I am engaged for this dance.”
He bowed and left her standing there, white and dazed.
“I don’t believe it! I don’t,” she told herself despairingly, and yet in her heart something told her that, for once at least, Ashton had spoken the truth.