“Was you––was you wanting to send a wire, sir?” he asked stolidly.
Micky looked at the girl beside him.
“Send June one from Paris,” she said. “I don’t know what she’ll say–––”
But June might have been expecting the wire, judging from the calm way in which she received it; she showed it to Rochester as if it were nothing out of the way; she looked over his shoulder as he read it.
“Married in Paris this morning. Love from Mr. and Mrs. Micky.”
She laughed and met Rochester’s eyes; there seemed to be an inquiry in his. June hesitated a moment, then she nodded.
And forty-eight hours later Micky and Esther read her reply just as they were leaving for the flower-fields of France––
“Married in London this morning––June and George.”
“Some people have no originality,” Micky complained in pretended disgust.