They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White City, see how economy can be practised.
They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain Street, studying the menu with puckered brows, taking omelette and a grill which they could share, and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine.
The amount of a bill which would not have covered tips at the Berkeley or the Ritz was gaily paid.
Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the childish power of enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the top of a motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly.
Esmé, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened to look up at the packed mass of humanity seated on the monster's head.
"Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the South African girl. Bertie happily saving his pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny."
She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a 'bus with him.
There were only taxis in the world for her now, or motors. The little electric carriages were so cheap to hire. Esmé's bill at the nearest garage was running up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for a taxi in the evenings; this was ready and took one on to supper or ball, and back again, and cost very little more," she would say.
Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the sunshine, looking down at the packed streets, as the 'bus slipped through the traffic—past Grosvenor Gate, on to the London which is not London to Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the vast grounds of the Exhibition, to play as children might have played. To rock on switchbacks, taking the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and dips; to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on mats round perilous curves; to go and laugh at themselves in ridiculous mirrors. And then with an aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint buildings of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead master of the drama.
Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, talk of those which she had seen.