We're lost. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection. There was still something very wrong with Michelle that was not resolved by her revelation about her true feelings about Mike. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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