With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched on the arm of Bertie's chair, her fingers caressing his hair. "And then," she said, bending and whispering to him.
He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in his.
"Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice—"for that, Esmé."
"For that. Then I'll settle down—give up Society," she said, jumping up and running to the window. "Come, we'll go out and join the trippers. I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. No, we won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. They'll always play.... It's too dull just walking out in the dark."
It was always too dull to do anything which left room for thought.
Esmé played until morning, then, with the effect of the nerve tonic worn off, went irritably upstairs, knowing that nothing but chloral would give her rest that night.
"Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must sleep alone. That will do, Marie. You can go."
Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to put on, but Esmé sent the maid away.
Marie laid down the scented silken thing and went thoughtfully.