"But the servants?" said Esmé.
"Oh, if they tell, they go; also, they won't get other places; they keep quiet all right. Betty Margrave told me that herself. She's got Dicky in order now; he's afraid of reprisals about Caromeo."
So from story to story, a male Vivien carelessly blackening reputation.
Esmé told him so, growing impatient.
"Bless you! who's got 'em nowadays? We only treasure visiting lists," he mocked.
After a time Esmé talked herself, found herself enjoying the ever-pleasant task of pulling our friends to pieces, added a new whisper or two for Sir Thomas to elaborate.
"Just left the new Penelope, haven't you?" he said. "Denise Blakeney—she's into the starch bag after several years in hot water. No one but Cyrrie now, and he—well, he was always a gorgon husband. Saw a parson gazing at Denise last month at her big garden-party. 'There is a model of English wifehood, of truth and purity,' he said to something in brown muslin, whom I fancy was his wife."
"And if he knew," flashed Esmé, indignantly, and stopped.
"Knew what?" Sir Thomas grew interested.
"A little secret." Esmé's face grew grave. "Pah! if we all knew each other's secrets. If you knew mine and I yours."