"Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out ill-humouredly. "I can't hunt for taxis. I—" she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a year for small things, pocket-money; she must make him think she saved out of that.
"And new diamonds." He touched the necklace glittering on the soft white flesh.
"Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost ten pounds. I had nothing decent to wear."
Until one took up the necklace one could not guess—see the solid backing. It was a brilliant thing; the workmanship perfect; but it had cost five times ten pounds.
Bertie bent to kiss the soft, warm flesh; slipped his arm round the supple shoulders.
"Come! I'll put you to bed," he whispered; "be your obedient maid, Butterfly."
"Susan will come, I told her to. Go to the little room, Bertie. I sleep so badly and anything disturbs me. I've heaps to do to-morrow."
He took his arm away, his ardour chilling, and went out without a word. Susan, sleepy but attentive, came in; put Madame to bed; washed the soft skin free of powder and paint; brought a little glass to the bedside.
"Madame's drops. Madame might not sleep."
Crystal clear, tasteless, soothing, bringing dreamless, heavy sleep; a slide of treachery down which women slip to ill-health and worse. Already, at five-and-twenty, Esmé was taking chloral.