“Hullo, Mellowes––not dancing––what the deuce is the matter?” he asked with sudden change of voice.
Micky passed a shaking hand across his mouth––
“Nothing ... where’s Ashton––have you seen Ashton?”
“I’ve just left him; he isn’t dancing either. Can’t think what’s happened to you youngsters to-day. When I was your age....” He broke off, realising that Micky was not listening. “Ashton’s in the smoking-room,” he said uneasily.
Micky went on; his hands were clenched, his teeth set.
The smoking-room door was half ajar; he could see that there were several men there. There was a clink of glasses and the sound of voices talking in a rather subdued way.
Micky paused. He knew that if Ashton were there it would mean a scene, and a scene in any one else’s house.... The thought snapped at the sound of his own name.
“Mellowes! Well, you do surprise me.” There was a chuckle. “Always thought he was one of the good boys.... It just shows that you never know a man till you find him out. Rather an error of judgment to choose Paris, eh? Who did you say she was?”
“A girl from Eldred’s––pretty little thing. I knew her before he did. As a matter of fact, it was only when I cooled off....”
That was Ashton’s voice; Micky could not see him, but he could picture vividly the eloquent shrug, the meaning smile with which he finished his incomplete sentence.