Esmé, once again Mrs Carteret, lay sobbing on the high narrow bed in her room at the Meurice. She would never be rich now; her heartache never stilled. Wild schemes went drifting through her brain. Could she do as Denise had done? No, for Denise was rich, and to cheat one must have money. Half-maddened, she buried her hot face in the pillow; then would spring up with clenched hands, railing against the world.
Her boy, her boy! who would have meant so much to her. Her baby, ill-used, neglected!
There is no sorrow so bitter as that of a sin which has failed to succeed; no remorse so biting as that which eats with decayed teeth, which whispers as it grows painfully, "I come from your own fault."
Esmé got up at last, powdered thickly and carelessly, put away her plain gown and got into a blue velvet, pinned on a huge hat, and went down to tea.
She could think no longer. A bunch of pale mauve violets tempted her. With her fair hair, her done-up skin, her brilliant gown, men turned and stared and drew their own conclusions.
Esmé wanted new gowns. Denise owed her money. She drove to her dressmaker's.
But Madame Lilie was cool, unenthusiastic. Madame Carteret's accounts were over-difficult to get in.
"If Madame would pay cash, but certainly. But otherwise money was scarce. English accounts so ver' difficult to get in. For cash there were one or two gowns."
With deft hands Madame showed a model of emerald velvet, bizarre, remarkable, but exquisite in its supple grace. Another of sapphire cloth. An evening gown of chiffon and satin, clinging, opal-hued.
The three could be supplied—they would fit Esmé easily—for one hundred and twenty pounds for cash, with jupons to match thrown in.