“Yes, sir,” said Driver imperturbably.
He hesitated, then asked––
“And––er––where did you say we should be going, sir?”
“I didn’t say,” said Micky. “And I don’t care––on the Continent––anywhere you like––look up some hotels....”
One place was as good as another, he argued, as he sat and watched Driver pack. Wherever he went he was going to be infernally miserable, so what did it matter?
When Driver stoically inquired how long he expected to be away, Micky answered violently that he was never coming back if he could help it; he said he hated London––he said he was sick to death of his flat and wanted a change.
“I shan’t come back till the autumn anyway,” he declared recklessly.
“Very good, sir,” was the stolid reply. Driver knew his master; he could remember another occasion when Micky had left London in a rage never to return, and ten days had seen him back again.
Certainly this was rather a different case from that other; this time there was a woman behind it. Driver knew this perfectly well, though beyond the posting of letters and the buying of the fur coat he had had no firsthand evidence.
But he kept his thoughts to himself and packed shirts and socks and coats by the score, as if to keep up the belief that they were really going for months, instead of the day which were the limit he prescribed in his own mind.