The flower-shops showed their sheaves of cut blossoms, long-stemmed roses, carnations, lilies, pinks, monster sweet peas. Things out of season nestled in baskets in the fruiterers. Wealth everywhere, gold or promise of gold; electric motors gliding noiselessly. Slim youngsters taking their morning stroll; brown-skinned soldiers up for a few days, spending in shops behind windows which Madame and Mademoiselle passed without a glance. The richest city in the world gathered its summer harvest; and white-faced poverty, sometimes straying from their poor country, looking on, dully, resentfully envious. Sewing-machines flew in the sweltering heat, needles darted, rows of girls sat working breathlessly, that great ladies might not be disappointed.
"I must have that embroidered gown for the Duchess's party, Madame."
"Certainly, milady, without fail."
Then a visit to the workroom—a whisper to two pale girls.
"You two must stay overtime to-night, get that dress finished. It mustn't get out, either—be careful!"
So, when their breath of air might be snatched, the two would stitch on under the dazzle of electric light, drink strong tea and eat bread and butter, and never dare to grumble, for there were fifty other girls who could be taken instead of them.
Esmé strolled up Bond Street. She bought a ruffle which caught her fancy; she stopped to talk to half a dozen people; but she strolled on, her goal a soot-smirched square where a baby would be taking its airing.
He was there, under his white awning, looking a little pale, a little peaked, wilting in the heat.
Mrs Stanson knew her visitor, smiled at her, never quite understood why Esmé came to the square so often. Esmé asked for Denise first; she was always careful to know that she was out before she came, then went into the gardens.
There was no air in it; the trees had no freshness; the grass looked dull and unwholesome.