Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written two foolish, girlishly gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again.
"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come."
Esmé listened, but heard no more. Moving silently she slipped away to the blind-shaded window and got there just as the two came out. Her back was to them, her head hidden in a hastily-snatched-up newspaper. They did not notice her.
Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to each their lines and part.
Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play her part without rehearsal.
"The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the sapphires and diamonds. They'll go with this cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire stars."
Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over the safe.
"Are you wearing the heavy diamond pendant, m'lady?"
"No." Denise flushed, bending over something on the dressing-table to hide her rising colour.
"It's not here, m'lady, and it was here at luncheon-time when I gave you the pink pearls."