Charlie, too, seemed to have been told to keep away, and June missed his lusty purr in the silent room.
She shed a few tears into the mauve cushions; she thought Esther was wilfully misunderstanding her; she wrote to Micky on the second day with a great deal of emphasis.
“Are you dead or asleep? Here am I, just living to hear from you, and you leave me without a word! Esther and I haven’t spoken for two days, not that you care, of course. You don’t believe in my friendships, I know, but it’s a very serious thing for me. I’m more fond of that girl than I’ve ever been of anybody, and now she’ll walk out of this house and my life, and it will be your fault....”
She knew this was unfair to Micky, but she knew that Micky would understand––Micky always understood.
But Micky frowned over the letter. Did she imagine he enjoyed sitting down here doing nothing? What pleasure did she suppose he was getting out of the whole thing?
He threw the letter into the fire. Something ought to happen to-morrow, anyway. The last two days had seemed like months.
To kill time he went round to the Delands. He felt a little nervous as he reached the house. It seemed an unconscionable time since he was last here. When the butler opened the door he felt an insane desire to say, “Good evening, Jessop! You’re still here, then.” Such a decade ago it seemed since Jessop had been wont to admit him without question and take his hat and coat.
But Jessop did not smile to-night, and did not move back an inch when he saw who was the caller.
Micky was nonplussed.
“Er––anybody in?” he asked awkwardly.