The Oyster

by Peer

CHAPTER V

Winter came softly across Italy. There were hours of sunlight, breaths of wind which carried no chill dampness. Here on a sheltered slope, its back to the hills, its windows overlooking stretches of olive groves, a villa had been built. Once a country home for a prince, now patched and painted when a strange tenant took it.

The Morning Post had announced that "Lady Blakeney and Mrs Carteret had left London together for the Continent. Lady Blakeney, having found the strain of the season too much this year, was going to rest by the sea in some quiet part of France." Later, a rumour crept out; there was a reason for the delicacy. After all these years! Denise had just whispered a hint before she left. She was coming home in the spring.

The difficulty of losing oneself was soon forced upon the two wanderers. They had gone without maids; they packed abominably; they were helpless without the attendance they had been used to.

Denise remarked tearfully that she had never put on her own stockings except once, when she was paddling. Esmé, less helpless, helped her, but was querulous, full of fancies, ill-pleased with life.

After a time Denise changed her trim dresses for loose coats and skirts. The two moved to Dinard, met a few friends there. Observant people looked shrewdly significant.

It was time then! When? they asked. Oh! some time in the spring. March, Denise said. Yes, it was quite true.

They wrote to friends at home.

Then came a time when they tried to vanish, went to small towns and fretted in dull hotels.

Denise had made inquiries, found out where there was a good doctor. One day the two came to Riccione, a little Italian town, built on a gentle slope, spying at the distant mountains, able, with powerful glasses, to catch a shimmer of the distant sea.

Luigi Frascatelle, slight and dark, a man immersed in his art of curing, was startled by the visit of two English ladies.

They were taking the Villa Picciani, ten miles out; they were coming in December. One asked for advice, for attendance if necessary.

Frascatelle's dark eyes read the sign words of wealth; the woman who did spokeswoman was brown, slender, distinguished, but wrapped in a long cloak; the other dazzlingly fair, younger, black circles under her brilliant blue eyes.

"Would the signor tell them where to procure servants—men and women? They would hire a motor. Was there a nurse, a trained one, available for some time? Lady Blakeney was nervous."

"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl curiously. "But, Madame," he spoke French, "will not Madame return for the event to England—to the great physicians there—to her own home?"

"Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in England; has a fancy for sunshine and for solitude."

The doctor bowed. "Ah! at such times there are ever fancies, better indulged. Ah! si, always better indulged."

The ladies were coming in December. He would call as required; there were worthy servants to be found. There was one, English.

"No," the elder woman shot out, "all Italian. We want your Italian cooking, Es—Denise and I. We want omelettes, macaroni, to amuse us in our solitude."

"But, sapristi! a strange amusement," said the doctor to himself.

"You will get us reliable servants, signor?" Denise asked.

"Che lo sa," said Luigi, absently. "Ah! yes, Madame, certainly."

"It is so kind of you," Denise went on graciously, "so very kind and good, signor."

He kept her back, he pressed his slim, strong fingers together.

"Madame, is it wise for your friend to be out here alone? She does not look strong; she is surely hysterical, nervous."

"It is her fancy, signor. I have left England to be with her and indulge it."

"The devotion of a friend," said Luigi. "And—Monsieur Sir Blakenee—is he satisfied?"

"He is abroad, shooting. Miladi has written, trusts he may meet her in England in time. We, will return before the event; but it is well to be prepared, to know of help if it is needed."

"That's all over," said Denise, coming out. "Why, child, don't look so white."

Denise had written to her husband, her letter was making its way up to a camping-ground under huge mountains, where Sir Cyril was shooting. It told her news; named March as the date; prayed him to meet her in London. Went on to talk simply of having been a fool, no more, a fool, and of how she had loved him before he went. But now she had left her old life, was travelling with Esmé Carteret, enjoying herself as well as health would permit. The past was the past; in the future an heir to his name might make Cyrrie happier. She tried to tell before he left, but she was not sure then.

A shallow woman, scheming for her own ends, she did not see the man's face as he read the letter. Opening it carelessly, sitting stricken, staring at it; his strong face stirred, the harsh lines slipping from it.

"Poor Denise," he said. "It was that she wanted to tell. Oh! poor old Denise—after all these years. The letter's dated Florence; she says to write to England as they're moving about. Poor old Denise!" he went on, and looked into the fire. "Perhaps she was only a fool. But the mother of my child," said Sir Cyril, simply, "is my wife for evermore."

His man, one he had had for years, was making a stew with skill.

"Reynolds," he shot out, "Reynolds! We trek for the coast to-morrow. Her ladyship wants me, Reynolds. There's an heir coming."

Reynolds gave polite congratulation.

"Comin' just in time," muttered the valet to the stew. "Just in time, milady."

Denise had no thought of how her husband's big nature would be moved. How, with old tender thoughts crowding back on him, he sat in the shadows and made plans, plans which included her, Denise, his wife. He'd take her on that yachting trip she'd hankered for; she'd want a change in the spring; they'd have a new honeymoon off her pet coast of Italy. But could they leave the child? The mystery of birth comes freshly to each man who calls himself Father for the first time. The child—He'd be in the old nurseries at White Friars, behind the wooden bars. He'd be a sturdy boy, strong, bright-eyed, no puling weakling, but a true Blakeney, clean-limbed and big. Soon he'd come toddling out in the gardens, a little creature wondering at big life; a mite who had to be taught the names of simple things. And later still he would ride and shoot and fish and swim, and learn that the Blakeneys were men of clean lives, and that he must follow the tracks of his fathers. Honour first, the house motto was carved over the old mantelshelf in the hall, where Cyril had been shown it as a boy.

Honour first! And when he re-read his letter, the letter which changed his life from loneliness to sudden hope of happiness, Denise was coming out of the little house in the Italian town, puckering her forehead lest she had forgotten anything to make her scheme perfect.

"If we catch that weekly boat we could get to England by February, Reynolds."

"Yes, Sir Cyril; just about the second or first week of February."

"I can cable from the coast. Tell her ladyship to meet me."

Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to put the past behind them, to see sunshine in the future.

*****

The brown-skinned Italian nurse looked regretfully at the morsel of humanity in her arms. A bonny, bright-eyed little thing, blinking at the world solemnly.

"I shall miss my bambino, signora," she said sadly.

Esmé talked haltingly; she bent over the boy, looking down at him; she was pale, a little worn and thin; some of the brilliance had left her eyes.

"Is he not a pride—a joy? Ah, signora. Old Beatrice has nursed many bambinos, but none such as this."

Esmé turned away impatiently. She looked out across the Italian landscape, fair even in winter.

It was January. There would be time to hunt still in England, to enjoy herself. To taste the reward of her scheme. But....

"None such as this." The mite cooed at nothing, smiling and stretching his hands.

"Esmé! I mean Denise!"

Lady Blakeney ran into the room, calling excitedly: "My dear, the post is in."

"Well! Carefully, Esmé." Esmé flung accent on the name. "Well?"

"The post! Cyril has written; oh, it's splendid."

The nurse bent over her charge, crooning to it, but there was a curious look on her face.

"Oh, carefully!" said Esmé, shutting the door, going out on to the old marble terrace. "Carefully. One never knows what these people understand. You must not take the letters."

"I had to, Esmé. He's caught some boat. He will be in London at once. He—Cyril! He will hear—see the papers. We must leave at once, to-morrow. I am wiring to Paris, and to the nurse in London. Wiring for rooms. Ah! the doctor, prying at us."

But little Luigi was not prying. He came to advise, to counsel caution for the fair English miladi. She must not run about so much.

"There was a strain," he said. "Madame was not well—no, not well at all."

His dark eyes looked at Esmé's drawn face; he grunted thoughtfully.

"Madame is not so strong," he said. "It is but three weeks—but three, and she is up and about."

"And we leave to-morrow," she said. "My husband is coming home, signor. I must fly to meet him."

"He could come here," said Luigi Frascatelle. "You are not fit to travel."

"He hates Italy. This was my fancy—this coming here."

Her fancy! The big, bare rooms had made Esmé nervous and irritable; she had chafed during the dullness of waiting; had grown fretful and afraid. She hated the big room she had lain sick in, with its ornate bed, its bare, polished boards; the fire of chestnut wood. How often she had woken in terror, dreading what must come to her in it. Then there was constant need of caution; the strain of remembering had told on the woman who ought to have been with her own people, with her hours full, her time taken up.

She could have played bridge, grumbled to her friends, learnt comfort, been with her husband.

"No, Madame is nervous; not well," said the little Italian, "run down. Better if Sir Blakeney came here to take Madame the journey. Madame does not know that there were difficulties which have weakened her."

Esmé went away irritably. Denise, laughing, excited, came in.

"She will be all right," she said impatiently. "It is nothing, surely, mere natural strain."

"Che lo sa?" said Frascatelle, half to himself. "There is a nervousness, Madame, as if from mental strain—and there were complications at the birth."

"It's this Italy," Denise said carelessly, "so depressing."

"But I thought," Luigi looked up in astonishment, "that Italy was Miladi's whim—"

"But of course," Denise flushed, "but whims, signor, are not always wise. The place was lonely."

When Luigi Frascatelle came next day to the villa it was empty. The Italian men and maids had been paid off liberally. Beatrice, weeping for her charge, had come in the motor to the station and seen the ladies off. They were both thickly veiled, both muffled up.

The little doctor drove back to the town and on to the station, to meet the old woman returning from the station.

"From here to Paris, without maids, without a nurse," he cried, "and with a baby of four weeks. They are strange, these English."

"They who know not how to feed it," groaned Beatrice. "All is not right, signor."

He drove back to his house; he piled fragrant chestnut wood upon the fire; he applied himself thoughtfully to a dish of golden risotto.

"There is something strange about this miladi," he said to his favourite almond pudding. "No, all is not right."

It was a weary journey. Little Cyril learnt to weep upon it, torn from kindly arms who knew how to hold him; he learnt the meaning of pain and hunger. He voiced his protest as best he could.

"Oh! stop him, Esmé. Stop the brat!"

Denise woke at the fretful wailing. "Make a bed for him there, a bed on the seat," she said.

"He might fall off." Esmé held the whimpering bundle in her arms, sat wearily, afraid she might drop off to sleep.

"Feed him then; he wants milk. Oh, what a terrible journey!"

Yet she did nothing on it; for Esmé, curiously silent, saw to the child.

A tall woman, kindly-faced, hurried through the crowd at the Gare; cried out as she saw the baby in Esmé's arms.

"Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs Stanson, engaged for your ladyship. Oh, milady, have you come alone—without a nurse?"

"The nurse was useless, insolent, neglecting baby," said Lady Blakeney, carelessly. "Take him now. He is so naughty. The woman neglected him."

"As those foreigners would do; yet he looks splendid. One moment, milady, while I gather these things."

She put the baby into Denise's arms, turning to pick up some of the tiny traveller's luggage. "Oh, not like that, milady," she cried, for the small head flopped on a stiffly-held arm and the boy wailed fretfully.

"H'm!" Esmé swept the mite out of Denise's hold. "Here! give him to me. H'sh, baby, hush!"

The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady Blakeney once in London, but she blinked now, afraid her memory had played her false.

"Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this was her ladyship." She looked at Denise.

"I am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I am tired of crying babies. Take him in one."

Mrs Stanson looked grave.

Esmé's eyes followed the tall woman who carried a little bundle down the platform. A sudden fierce ache of regret came to her—regret and anger. This little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not have sent it off alone.

"Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am."

"Some people do not." Esmé looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier now that you have him, nurse."

Downstairs the God of Chance was working wonders.

Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried out in astonishment.

A big man was registering at the bureau. Her name was written before his. He swung round with a cry as he looked at it.

"Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them hard. "Denise, I got a paper at Marseilles. My poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you ill? It was two months too soon."

With a little sob Denise held to the big strong hands, knew then what she had so nearly lost; this man's protection, his name; his kind eyes looked into hers.

The past was past; she knew that. Some women make resolutions and keep them. Denise did then. For the future, the future she had made by fraud, Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion.

"Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me—keep me here?"

"I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross then. And I was not sure."

"I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet corner. "That's over, my wife. And the boy? Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, I hope?"

"Oh, not yet—he'll be asleep now." Denise was gay, radiant, her colour bright. "I'm hungry, Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now—and talk—talk!"

"Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for Sir Herman to go out? Were you bad? I never saw you looking stronger."

"Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she said, a little uneasily.

"And you came on so soon. There's nothing wrong with him, is there? Oh, Denise, tell me."

"Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing carelessly. "He's a great baby."

Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril would never bring up the past to the boy's mother.

"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said.

The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with Esmé stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face.

"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril."

Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past. As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy movement might wake the child.

"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly.

"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril—really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder."

Esmé started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it.

A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him.

"He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I thought that, coming too soon, he might be puny, delicate—but he's fine."

Esmé turned away. It was her boy they praised, and she knew the bitterness of jealousy.

If gold could have been fried for dinner, and diamonds used for sauce, Sir Cyril would have ordered them that night. He was too big and quiet to be openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more marked. He ordered a special dinner, special wines, fruit, boxes of sweets. The table was littered as if it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would search Paris for a memento, for something to mark this meeting.

Esmé, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing in the cold, looks through clear glass at a blazing fire yet cannot warm himself. They shut a door on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband to rejoice in his heir.

The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of envy, of futile wrath. For what had brought these two together was hers, and she had sold it. Sometimes they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into their plans. Esmé would come shopping in the morning, of course, help to choose jewels; Esmé had been such a friend—so devoted.

"I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said once. "You lost half a year to keep my wife company. Lord! you're a real friend!"

"Yes." Esmé crunched a silvered bonbon, a cunning mixture of almonds and fruit and sugar. She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and enjoy, a painted, flavoured piece of sugar?

She had money; she could go to the hidden shops on the second storeys, and buy the dainty fripperies that Paris knows how to produce; she wanted a fur coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things.

Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding her out a glass of Chartreuse, clinking it against hers.

"Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, "some day we'll go, you and I, and take that villa for a month, and I can see where my boy was born."

The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the glass splinters dulled by the oily liquid.

"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. Wasn't it dull, Den"—she stopped—"Esmé?"

"I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esmé, dully.

That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door.

Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay sleeping in that quiet room.

"Oh, Esmé!"—Denise called her into her room next day—"Esmé! Come here! You can go, Summers."

Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out.

"Esmé!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esmé.

"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esmé.

"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about him, Esmé! It would only look silly—better not. Will you meet us at the Ritz for déjeuner?"

Esmé excused herself. She might be late. She would come back to the hotel.

She went out into the crisp, stinging cold of early February. Touch of frost on Paris, drift of hot air from shop doors, clear sunlight overhead, people hurrying along the dry pavements. Furs everywhere, outlining piquant French faces; from solid sombre imitation to the sheen of Russian sable and the coarse richness of silver fox.

A fur coat—Esmé wanted one—went restlessly into a shop, tried on, priced, gloried in their soft richness, their linings of mauve and white; saw her fair beauty framed by dark sable, by light-hued mink, by rich fox skin, and knew again disappointment.

The three coats she wanted were splendid things; each one would take almost all her money, leave nothing for frocks and hats.

Impatiently, almost angrily, she stood frowning at the glass.

"Oh! yes, the coat was lovely; but the price! Four hundred pounds of English money; and this other was five!" There was the little coat of mink priced at a mere bagatelle.

"Yes, but Madame must see that it was coarse beside the others."

Cunningly the shopman put the two together; showed the rare sheen of the sable, the cravat of real lace, the exquisite tinting of the blue and silver brocade lining, and laid against it a coat which would have looked rich alone, but here, against this, was a mere outcast.

"Madame sees; the coat is cheap—a bargain. We sold one to-day, almost like it. Ah! here it is!"

"I must take the cheap one," Esmé muttered. "I—"

"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. And this which we wish Madame to have is almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight alteration."

Truly a gorgeous garment this—sables black in their splendour; clasps of jade and silver and paste; lining such as fairy princesses might wear. A ruffle of old Mechlin.

"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. Unique, exquisite. And this other looks as well."

Sudden bitter resentment choked Esmé. Denise could have this coat and go on to other shops to buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was five hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken her out to-day, bought her furs or given her twice the stipulated money; this time might have been generous.

"Oh! I'll take this one." Esmé touched the sable coat. After all, she had money in the bank; she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll pay for it now."

She had to wait while they went to the bank; then she went out in the rich mantle. It was heavy, a little difficult to walk in, but she could see her fair face against the dark furs as she peered into mirrors.

At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three she must have. And this—and this blouse; another dress and scarf.

Esmé had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked dubious.

"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a half-yearly price. "That brown—you'll copy it at once?"

"Ah, yes—shortly." But Madame was pressed. "Milady Blakeney had been in ordering a dozen frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes."

Denise again before her, dwarfing her, Esmé's, orders. The coat seemed heavier now. She bought hats almost languidly; passed a jeweller's window, saw a necklace, a thing of diamonds and emeralds exquisite in its fine work, with one great diamond swinging from the fret of green and white.

"How much?" Esmé shrugged her shoulders. "It would have gone so well with her new gown." She bought a tiny brooch of enamel and went out.

It was dull at lunch at the Café de la Paix. She did not go back for it. It was stupid to eat alone; the omelette tasted leathery; the little fillets tough; the place was overheated; she would have taken off her coat, but the dress underneath was last year's, therefore a thing to be hidden.

Men stared at the beautiful English woman in her daring green hat and gorgeous furs.

Sipping her liqueur, Esmé tried to lose her irritation in dreams of the future. Bertie would be home; they would take up their old happy life; but even more happily. She would be so well off now. Able to buy her own frocks, to help in many ways. When she got back she would go off to hunt somewhere. Esmé looked at her hands; they were so much thinner. Would she be strong enough to hunt? She had lost her rounded contours; she knew that there were new lines on her fair skin, that she had lost some of her youth.

These things age one. And yet—"L'addition," she said sharply. Yet she thought of a little soft thing lying in the big upstairs room at the Bristol, and something hurt her sharply again.

She was tired of shopping, she would go back there now. It was lonely in Paris.

Mrs Stanson, writing letters to engage a variety of nursemaids—she considered a person of her position must be thoroughly waited on—was surprised by a visit from Esmé.

The baby was splendid after all his trials and his journey. Mrs Stanson did not hold with infants travelling; she dreaded the cold journey back to England.

"Nor do I hold with the heat of these here rooms," said the English nurse, "and with the cold a-rushing in like a mad dog with its mouth open if one stirs a window. Give me air for a child, Mrs Carteret, air and warmth; but above all, air."

An autocrat of the nursery, this Mrs Stanson, who had nursed heirs of great houses and loved her charges. A death now, the passing of pretty delicate Lady de Powers and her infant son, had set the woman free.

"You'll love him, Mrs Stanson—be good to him?" Esmé flung out the words in sudden impulse; she took the smiling baby up.

"I declare, Mrs Carteret, he might be yours instead of her ladyship's," laughed the nurse. "She came in for five minutes, and asked if I wanted anything, and to order what I wanted. I made it two nursery-maids to-day. Like many young mothers, she's careless. It's the ladies without that would give their eyes for one," said Mrs Stanson, softly.

"Without." A slur on her, Esmé, whose child was in her arms. Something hurt in her throat; she turned red and then white. She sat for an hour in the big bright room, listening to all the ills which lurk in wait for infant life, related with gusto by the nurse. A little chill, a spoon of soured food, and poof! out goes the life; then later, chicken-pox, measles, whooping-cough; wet feet. It seemed wonderful to think that there were any children left alive. Little Cyril, dribbling thoughtfully, had no idea of what was before him.

But at the end, comfort. "And yet they lives," said Mrs Stanson, "lives on, on beer and dripping, which I am informed is used as baby food by the very poor."

Denise came in for tea, fresh, radiant, wrapped in a great stole of fox. Big Sir Cyril pulling little boxes innumerable from his pockets.

They had a sitting-room. Denise called Esmé in to her, spread purchases on the table.

"See, Esmé—this pendant, isn't it sweet? And this enamel clasp—and this brooch—and that diamond heart." The table glittered with the things. "Oh, Cyril could not buy enough for me. He is so good."

Almost sullenly Esmé looked down at the stone of green, white and red; the pendant and necklace was the one which she had coveted. Denise might offer to give her some of these; she might ask her if there was nothing she wanted.

"And I got you something, Es—just as remembrance. Cyril wished me to. Summers! bring in the parcels. Yes, there it is."

Esmé knew the label—that of a huge shop close to the Place de l'Opera; good, but bourgeois, cheap.

"See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. It's too dark for you." Denise pulled out a stole of brown fox—a huge thing, covered with tails, but meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled as she touched it. This for all she had done for her friend.

"Thank you, Denise." Esmé took up the fur. "How pretty. It was nice of you to think of me, now that I am of no further use."

Denise looked up, startled by momentary fear. Surely Esmé was more than content with her share of the bargain. Was glad to be rid of her unwanted brat; to have ample allowance and be free. For a minute she saw what it might be if Esmé failed her.

But Denise was shallowly optimistic; she laughed the fears away; she kissed Esmé affectionately.

"It was a great thought, and it's splendidly over," she whispered—"over for us both."

"And you? You really begin to feel that he is yours?" whispered Esmé back, almost fiercely.

"I believe I do. I shall have forgotten it completely in ten years' time," laughed Lady Blakeney.

"And—shall I?" said Esmé to herself.