Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esmé wanted. She saw too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but not this second one of her self-respect.
She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming of Mr Beerhaven to look after her; she was feeling so much better now.
"But," he stood in front of her in her corner; she could see the eager look on his face. "But—she must let him go on taking care of her. Wouldn't she dine with him to-night? Do a theatre—have supper afterwards?"
Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esmé smiled.
Unfortunately she was engaged, all day, every day this week. But would he lunch on Sunday? They were having a little party at the Ritz. He would meet her husband.
The eager look changed to one of sulky indecision. Angy Beerhaven was not sure if he could. If she'd have tea with him to-morrow he'd tell her.
Esmé promised to lightly; went away leaving the boy frowning.
"Is she one of your real stand-offs, or just wants to put a value on herself?" he muttered. "Bah! It's too much trouble if she does—pretty as she is."
Clutching the rest of her money, Esmé strolled about aimlessly; she gave up two engagements, would not go to her club because she was too restless to talk to her friends. Turned in at last to a tea-shop, where brown curtains made little alcoves, and thick blinds shaded the light. There were three or four tiny rooms, one opening from the other; the first where the decorous matron might sit and drink tea and eat muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were separated by portières of Indian beads, rattling as one passed through.
Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esmé went to the second room, sat down in a dim corner just by the door into the last, and ordered tea. It made her head clearer; she smoked, thinking deeply.