Esmé Carteret, in a soft muslin gown, sat in her pretty drawing-room; sat for a moment, jumped up restlessly, trying to escape her thoughts.
Suspicion had become certainty; there was no escape save through folly or worse; her easy happiness was at an end.
"Vilette has 'phoned, madame. She wishes to know if you will have your gown for Cup day quite tight, with a soft chiffon coat, she says."
"I'll think of it, Marie. No, tell her not to; make it loose, soft."
Marie coughed discreetly. Marie guessed—or knew.
Esmé reddened, tore at a pink carnation, pulling its fragrant petals to pieces.
In ten minutes her guests would be there; she would have to talk to them, to laugh and chatter, and not show her uneasiness.
Dollie Maynard, fluttering in, a slender, bright-eyed woman, brainless and yet sharp-witted, weighing men and women by what they could give her. Denise Blakeney was coming; they were all going on to Ranelagh. Esmé's flat was not much out of the way.
Esmé's little lunches were perfection in their way; there was sure to be some highly-spiced story to be discussed; someone would have transgressed or be about to transgress, someone would already have given London food for gossip.
"Esmé, dear! what lovely flowers!" Dollie's quick eyes appraised the roses. "Oh! extravagant Esmé!—or is it Esmé well beloved, with a someone who wastes his income at a florist's."