As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper crossed London.
Esmé, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money to gamble with, went to the Holbrooks. Came, without thought of the scandal which was biting at her name, down to dinner.
The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin limbs; she was haggardly, dazzlingly handsome.
Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire.
"How cold it is!" Esmé had played bridge for years with the Ploddy women.
Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if she had heard nothing.
"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esmé said, carelessly. "Been winning lately? We can play in the mornings here."
Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned.
"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am rather off bridge. Vita, shall we sit down?"
The whisper to yet another friend: