"New—if a year old is new."
"And this"—he snapped open two or three cases, holding glittering toys. "I didn't give you any of these, did I?"
Esmé moved impatiently. "Paste," she said suddenly. "Parisian! I can't go about always wearing the same old things, so I am foolish, and get these."
"Oh, paste!" He was putting back a pendant when he looked at the setting. Surely paste had a backing, was not set clear.
"They're wonderfully done," he said gravely. The satin lining of the case bore a Bond Street jeweller's name.
"Oh, wonderfully." Esmé snapped the case to. "And I get the cases so as to deceive my friends' maids. Run away, Bertie, you worry me standing there."
He went slowly. Esmé was lying to him. The things were real. Her jewel-box was full of new toys and trifles; he began to realize that her dresses were magnificent.
Her letters lay in a litter on her bureau, some half-opened, all tossed about as if they had worried her. One long slip oozed from its envelope, with a huge total at its foot. It was a bill for new furs. Another thick envelope bore the word "Claire" on the back.
A man has a right to see his wife's bills. Bertie took out the letter.
Madame Claire begged immediately for a cheque on account. She really must have a few—Bertie turned white—a few hundreds. A smaller slip of paper was enclosed. Amount of account furnished, three hundred and ten pounds. Yellow evening gown, lace overdress, seventy pounds. Blue tea gown, forty pounds. The total was for five hundred pounds.