The tenderness in his voice was forced there, stilling thoughts which would not sleep; he assured himself that with a fresh start, without perpetual extravagance and excitement, he would feel the old passion for his wife wake in him. Fresh air and exercise would banish the memory of the companion whose presence he longed for so much now.
"Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, with me as chief physician."
London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the taxi rushed to the flats; the streets called to Esmé; the restaurants were lighted up, glowing golden behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of the wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; the dreariness of the country.
"I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't understand. Town's my life, Bertie; all my pals are here. No, I couldn't."
"It will have to be Town with a difference very soon," he said, sighing.
Economy again—money; he thought of nothing else. She was not back five minutes and he was preaching at her. He could look up what he'd paid for her clothes last year. It wasn't so much. "And I'm better dressed than rich women," stormed Esmé, hysterically. "You might be proud of me instead of grumbling—always grumbling."
The taxi stopped at the door of the tall buildings. There was no home in it to Bertie. The hall porter greeted them. The lift took them upwards to their flat, past other flats, and then into the pretty rooms.
Marie was ready waiting, supplying the petit soins which Bertie had forgotten.
"Pauvre Madame is tired." Marie had a cup of coffee with but just a soupçon of eau de vie. The bath was prepared. She hovered round Esmé, getting a soft wrapper, soothing jangled nerves. Marie was a treasure!
Esmé took up her letters. Bills, invitations, more bills, a scrawl from Dollie asking them to dinner. Esmé had forgotten her ill-humour.