“Carry it?” she echoed. “What do you mean?––Oh, the cat; no, thank you. He wouldn’t like it: he hates strangers.”
“Oh!” said Micky. He felt chagrined. “Is it a great pet?” he asked.
“Yes.” She hunched her queer burden more closely under her arm. “It isn’t really mine,” she explained. “But they were so unkind to it in the house that I had to bring it.”
Micky was dying to ask questions, but somehow it hardly seemed a propitious moment. He did not speak again till they reached the little café.
It was a quiet little downstairs place, and just now was almost deserted.
Micky chose a corner table which was partially screened from the rest of the room. As he stood up to take off his coat he looked at the girl interestedly.
She was better than pretty, he decided with a little pleasurable thrill; he could not remember when he had seen a face that appealed to him so strongly in spite of its pathos and the tear stains round her eyes.
And such sweet eyes they were!––really grey with dark lashes and daintily pencilled brows. She looked up suddenly, meeting his earnest regard.
“Well?” she said. There was a touch of defiance in her voice; the colour had risen in her white cheeks.
“Well?” said Micky with a friendly smile.