"He's one of the best," June Mason went on. She dragged forward another chair and plumped down into it comfortably.
"Don't you admire him?" She opened her eyes wide, looking across at Esther.
"Yes, oh yes! I think he's quite nice," Esther said stiltedly. "But not a bit good-looking, do you think?" she asked, with a sort of hesitation.
Miss Mason took the portrait from her and held it at arm's length.
"Um!" she said critically. "Perhaps he isn't, but I like him so much, you see, that I'm not a fair judge. He's been a good friend to me, at all events."
She got up, replaced the frame on the shelf, and plumped back once more amongst her mauve cushions.
"My people wanted me to marry him at one time," she went on airily. "I might have done so only I liked him too well. He didn't care for me, except as a friend, and it seemed a shame to spoil it, so I put my foot down."
Esther was interested; she was remembering how Micky had told her that he had never really cared for any woman in all his life.
"He never asked me, my dear," Miss Mason answered candidly. "I let him see that it wouldn't be any good if he did, and I know he was frightfully relieved. We were never so nearly in love with one another as we were when we both knew that we didn't mean to get married." She chuckled reminiscently. "It finished me with my people, though," she added, "so I cleared out and came here."
"And--Micky?" Esther asked. "I--I mean Mr. Mellowes...."
"How did you know his name?" she asked. "Did I tell you? I suppose I did. Oh, he's all right; he's the kind of man who always will be all right. He's got another girl on the tapis now. I don't know if it will come to anything, though. Anyway, she's not good enough for him."
"You seem very fond of him," Esther said.
"I am. He's a dear! I should love to see him happily married to a girl with a heart of gold like his own. I think I know him better than most people, and his little corner of the world would be amazed if they knew the amount of good Micky manages to do."
She had flushed up with her own enthusiasm. Her curious eyes (Esther could not decide if they were grey, blue, or green, or a mixture of all three) were very bright and expressive.
"I've heard lots of rotten things said about him," she went on, "and I know that none of them are really deserved--at least most of them are not. He isn't a saint--but what man is, I should like to know? But Micky's the sort who would give his life for a friend or any one little and weak. Do you know"--she flung away the half-smoked cigarette and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees--"last winter, down in the country, I saw Micky go into a dirty pond in evening dress to rescue a drowning cat. What do you think of that?"