Esmé was going to the Holbrooks. She must wear her old clothes; and Dollie Gresham would be there, and Denise.
"You know that I would pay you," Esmé flashed out. "It is nonsense. I could send you half in a month."
Madame grew cold again. After all, the blue was almost sold to a customer, but as Madame had come all the way from Londres, bien! she had showed it.
It was in Esmé's mind to lose her temper, to call the woman insolent and suspicious. But the three models lying together, green and blue and shimmering opal, held her tongue.
She would come back to-morrow, buy the gowns; she had meant to leave next morning, but she would not.
It was dusk outside, and cold; she hurried on to the Ritz.
A stout man, barring her path, swept his hat off to her, murmuring some words.
"Monsieur!" Esmé said haughtily.
"But, Madame"—the man's French halted. "If Madame would come to tea with a humble admirer—"
"Monsieur!" she stormed, hurrying on across the open space in front of the huge hotel. The man followed her, apparently unabashed, into the lounge, his eyes fixed admiringly on her.