She was not afraid of Jimmie, or of any man. Esmé did not know the lower depths Gore Helmsley was capable of in hours when he mixed with the underworld—the great stream which glides beneath London's surface.
"I'd love to," Esmé began.
And then again the sudden fear. May—this was May. In January there might be no hunting, no enjoyment, nothing but a weary waiting for what must be.
"I'll come," she said gaily; "I must have my hunting. Oh! I must!"
Gore Helmsley smiled softly. "And—drop a hint to Denise Blakeney to go slow," he said. "Those big men think a lot."
CHAPTER II
May made her brilliant, treacherous way across her allotted span of days. A thing of sunshine, a lady of bitter winds, she laid her finger on London's pulse and felt it throb to life beneath her touch. She saw the golden sacrifices made to the gods of the season; money poured out as water in the huge city; money spent everywhere; in the crowded shops; in stately salons, where the great dressmakers created their models; on cabs and motors; on fruit and flowers and vegetables out of season—since it is ordained that when the gifts of the earth come to their ordinary time your entertainer has no use for them.
Strawberries in June are mere berries of no worth; asparagus in May becomes a comrade to cabbage. It is only that which costs much money which is of value in the eyes of the rich.
Hundreds of pounds on roses to decorate walls for one night; odd hundreds on a gown which will never be worn twice; the clerks, the poor, look on without envy, merely with admiration, with a glow perhaps of pride for the great country which can pour out gold as water.