Gleams of bright sunshine came through the windows of the trim little flat into the drawing-room furnished in miniature aping of luxury. The chairs and tables were Sheraton—Sheraton passably imitated—the covering rich brocade. Soft white cushion covers, fine as cobwebs, clothed the big squares stuffed with feathers. Late narcissi and early roses made the air heavy with scent. The place was small, but it carried the air of comfort; it was a miniature of its roomy brothers and sisters in big town houses. The door of the dining-room, standing open, showed the same taste. Polished inlaid mahogany, good silver, embroidered table linen. Early as it was there had been strawberries for breakfast, and cream, and hot bread.
"Luncheon at the Berkeley. It will be a good one too. I'm driving with Denise to that show at the Duchess's. Tea at the Carlton. Dining with Robbie at his club; the Gay Delight afterwards; supper at Jules. Oh! the days are not half long enough."
Long-limbed, slender, gracefully pretty, Esmé Carteret turned over the leaves of her engagement-book. Her blue eyes sparkled behind dark lashes; her skin was fair and carefully looked after. She was so bright, so dazzling, that at first sight one missed the selfishness of the weak, red-lipped mouth, the shallowness of the blue eyes.
"Not half long enough," she repeated. "Oh, Bertie, you—"
A flashing smile, a hand held out, yet in the greeting no look of the real love some women feel for their husbands.
"Well, Butterfly." Bertie Carteret had a bundle of letters in his hands; he was opening them methodically with an ivory cutter.
A dark man, with a quiet, strong face. Dazzled, attracted by this fair piece of womanhood, loving her as men love when they do not stop to look further than the flesh and blood they covet, and so, married. And now, loving her still, but with eyes which were no longer blinded, with little lines of thought crinkling round his eyes when he looked at her, yet still her slave if she ordered him, thrilling to the satin softness of her skin, the scented masses of her hair.
"Well, my Butterfly," he said, opening another letter.
Esmé did not pay her own bills. She had not as yet sufficient wisdom to keep the house accounts. It saved trouble to let Bertie take them.
"Esmé child!" He looked at the total written under a long line of figures. "Esmé! those cushion covers are not made of gold, are they?"