There was a dance next night given by a newcomer to London, an Italian Marchese.
Denise went to it, for Cyril was out of danger.
Three times Esmé had rung up to know if she might see the child, and Denise had answered: "No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esmé must not come."
The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton Place, had spared no expense on her entertainment.
Esmé, with her cheeks too pink, her eyes bright and hard, felt anew the frost which was creeping about her. Friends bowed coldly; she saw nods, shrugged shoulders.
She met Jimmie Gore Helmsley near the ball-room door. He was watching for a new love, a pretty little woman of twenty, married to a dull man who merely adored her and therefore took no pains to show it. The girl turned from gold to tinsel, because tinsel glittered and was more pleasing to the eye.
"Oh, Jimmie, you!" Esmé was glad to see him. "Any news?"
"Heaps!" he said coolly. "Sorry I can't stay to tell it you, fair lady. It's curious news."
Jimmie was paying off a score. He was openly unfriendly. Esmé stood partnerless, hurt by the snub for a time, until she flashed smiles on boys who bored her, simply that she might not be alone.
She saw Denise splendidly dressed, glittering with jewels; saw, too, that Denise backed and tried to slip away to avoid a meeting.