“Thank you,” said Micky with faint sarcasm.
He felt vaguely disappointed with the whole afternoon. She was holding him so decidedly at arm’s length. He supposed it was that infernal fellow Ashton that stood between them. There was a sort of irony, too, in the fact that he himself had by his own action established him more firmly than ever in this girl’s affections.
And the fellow was not worth a thought! That was the rotten part of it. As he looked at her he felt strongly tempted to blurt out the truth; to tell her that it was he who wrote that letter––to undeceive her once and for all.
But the thing was manifestly impossible. She would probably think it an abominable thing to have opened Ashton’s letter; she would probably be furious if he let her know that the money she had received had come from him. Whichever way he turned he seemed to be in a corner.
They had reached the new boarding-house now, and Micky was relieved to see that it was a decided improvement on the one in the Brixton Road.
The windows were not boxed up, and the steps and the bell were clean. It was on the sunny side of the road, too, and had an air of cheerfulness about it.
“It’s much better than the other one, isn’t it?” Esther asked.
“Streets better,” he assured her. “I shouldn’t mind living here myself....” He waited, but she made no comment, and he felt rather snubbed.
There was a little silence.