"I can't do it," he muttered, writing his cheques. "I can't get on."
A plea to Esmé would only make her sullen, irritable, railing at her poverty, muttering against poor marriages.
"I—oh, you are alone. I've brought the book which Esmé asked me for." Estelle Reynolds came on Bertie as he sighed over his bills. "And the pearls she left to be mended."
She put down a new novel on the table, one barred by libraries. Esmé would look at it, probably forget to finish it, unless she thought she found any of her friends were pilloried between the flaring green covers.
Estelle put down a receipt with the pearls, one for two pounds. Bertie looked at the amount.
"Has Esmé paid you?" he asked.
"Oh, no, it does not matter—any time." Estelle blushed. "I can ask her."
"I wonder"—he turned—"how much she has let you pay, this careless wife of mine. For the future, Estelle, bring anything to me."
"You seem to have enough to pay for." Estelle pointed to a pile of books and cheques.
"Too much! More than I can manage. Estelle, is nothing of value unless it costs money? Must one always lunch and dine and sup with people whose daily income equals our half-yearly one? Can a woman ever look well in a frock which costs less than twenty pounds? Oh, one must go to so-and-so—everyone does. Is there nothing simple left in life?" said Bertie, drearily. "No pleasure in a corner of the country where a man could pay his way honestly, and eat strawberries in June and peaches in August?"