Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow of life stream past her to speak to Bertie Carteret.
Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very few people—just a few of Esmé's friends. She liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering of the hundred things which they had got to do.
"I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated Estelle. "The love of London is not with me, though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact."
"Unless—you marry," Bertie said slowly.
In some vague way the thought vexed him.
Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, "but I am not High Church enough to please him. Yes, there is the curate. I am far too ordinary and stupid for Esmé's friends to look at me, and I meet no others. My marriage must be deferred until we take up the house in Northamptonshire, and then some country squire will suit me and not notice my last year's frocks."
"Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid young tailor's blocks, always going on. You don't notice them."
"Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr Turner told me three hands which he had played at bridge the night before, and had crushin' luck in them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. How is Esmé?"
"Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest evening gown was not a success. She is weighed down between the choice of pure white or pure black for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, and the new cook's soufflets are weary things, given to sitting down. Also her ices melt; and she cannot sauté potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't it? Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies and help to make hay. This day is taken up by a luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, dinner at the Holbrooks', an evening party. I have struck at two dances, as I have to get up early."
Esmé had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over this new gown of golden soft chiffon and silk. It dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame Claire inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but my Lady Blakeney was choosing six—two models, two copies, two emanating from Madame Jane Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her country's desire for buttons and for trimmings.