"In this case—my lawful spouse! He sent them in yesterday." Esmé omitted to say that she had asked for them.
"You are a model pair, Esmé." Dollie sat down; she was a woman who was never hardly dressed; chiffons, laces seemed necessary to soften her sharp little face. "You've all you want. Oh—Denise!"
Denise Blakeney, looking worried—her soft, weak face was drawn a little. Dollie was fluttering softness; Denise Blakeney solid wealth; the pearls on her throat were worth a fortune; the diamonds pinned about her dress splendid in their flashing purity.
Dollie detested Esmé because she did so much on half the Maynards' income; she envied Denise deeply.
"It's a mystery how the Carterets manage," Dollie would whisper. "A mystery—unless—" and then came the whisper which kills reputation, the hint which sets the world talking, in this case generally put aside with an "Oh! they've enough, those two, and people are very good to her—she's so pretty."
Another time Esmé would have been proud of her luncheon; the soles in cunning sauce; the soufflet of peas; the cutlets; the savoury—Esmé prided herself on original savouries. There was hock which was owed to bright smiles to a Society wine merchant, who sent it to her at cost price.
On other days Esmé would have smiled to herself at Dollie Maynard's peevish envy, at the praise veiled by pricks of innuendo.
"Esmé dear, you might be a millionaire. How delicious this hock is. Holbrook keeps it, but it's beyond poor little me; he told me the price. But to you perhaps he relents."
Coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes; then Dollie fluttered away, called for by friends.
"Shall we go?"—Denise Blakeney strolled to the window—"or shall I send the car away? Esmé, I'm in bad spirits; it's raining, too!"