For two days Micky Mellowes never left his rooms, and hardly ate a thing, and for once in his life Driver permitted a spark of anxiety to creep into his dull eyes. He was sure that his master was ill; he tried tempting dishes and alluring cocktails, but Micky refused them all.
“My good man, I’m not an invalid,” he protested irritably.
He hated it, because he knew his agitation was apparent; he tried to settle to read, but whenever a bell rang through the house he started up with racing pulses.
She must have got his letter, he knew. If there was any hope for him at all she would write at once or send for him. His nerves began to wear to rags.
Sometimes his hopes soared to the skies, to drop to zero again. Once in a fit of despondency he told Driver to pack his bag, as they would be leaving early in the morning.
“Yes, sir––where shall we be going, sir?” Driver asked stoically.
Micky swore.
“You do ask such damned silly questions,” he complained irritably.
An hour later, when he found Driver packing, he called him a fool, and told him to unpack at once.
And so the days dragged away.