That she did not particularly care if she saw him again or not, he was miserably sure. She had no thoughts for any one but Ashton. He felt as if he could not settle to anything. On the third morning Marie Deland rang him up. He had told her many times that her voice on the telephone cheered him, but to-day it made him frown.
He tried to answer her cheery “That you, Micky?” as cheerily, but he knew it was a failure.
“What’s the matter?” she asked quickly. “Aren’t you well? Or are you cross?”
There was a hint of laughter in her voice. She had never known Micky cross; he was always the cheeriest of mortals.
Micky grabbed at the excuse she offered him.
“I’ve got a brute of a headache,” he said.
“Poor old boy!” The pretty, sympathetic voice irritated him. “Come out for a walk; it will do you good.”
“Thanks––thanks awfully, but I don’t think it would. I’m a perfect bear––you’d hate me. Some other time.”
There was a little pause. Micky could have kicked himself as he remembered on what terms they had parted. It was not her fault that a miracle had happened since then to metamorphose the whole world. He supposed uncomfortably that she was just the same as she had been when he last saw her. He knew she must be wondering why he had stayed away so long. He tried to soften his words.
“I’ll look in to-night, if I may. Sorry to be such a bear.”