He screwed the letter up and tossed it into the fire; he would answer it some time, or call; there was no immediate hurry. When he had finished his breakfast he went to his locked desk and took out Ashton’s letter––somehow until he actually saw it again he could not quite believe that the events of last night had not all been a dream; but the letter was real enough, at all events with its callous beginning to “Dear Lallie.”
The morning seemed to drag; twice people rang him up on the ’phone and asked him to lunch, but Micky was not in the mood for lunch; he felt a suppressed sort of excitement, as if something of great import were about to happen.
Driver looked at him woodenly once or twice; his face was as expressionless as his voice, but his dull eyes saw everything, and behind them his keen brain wondered what had happened to make Micky so restless.
Towards one o’clock he ventured a gentle reminder.
“You have an engagement for half-past three, sir––Miss Langdon’s.”
Micky was yawning over the paper then; he looked up with an absurdly blank face.
“Oh, I say!––well, I can’t go, anyway. What was it for? I’m going out––I’ve got an important appointment.”
Driver never showed surprise at anything if he felt it.
“It was a musical ‘At ’Ome,’ sir,” he answered stolidly. “Shall I ring up and say that you won’t be able to come?”
“Yes, ring up,” said Micky. He coloured self-consciously beneath the man’s stoic eyes and hurriedly buried his head again in the newspaper.