"Esmé," Bertie whispered, "with those people."
Poor Esmé, glaring defiance at the friends who had cut her, her cheeks scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly handsome still, but haggard, bad style, laughing too gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless happiness too openly. And straight opposite, Denise, quietly dressed, placidly happy, avoiding Esmé's challenging looks.
The parts had been played and gone strangely for the players.
"My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd of fourth-rate impossibilities—and looking...." He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do you think a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she may not see us."
A vain hope. Esmé's restless eyes looked everywhere. She started, turned laughingly to Lord Francis Dravelling.
"See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she said, "there, in the stalls. I used to like the girl once, but I leave her to Bertie now."
"Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring Esmé. Then he whispered to her eagerly.
Esmé's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly.
Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was sitting with another woman, and she was listening, without anger, to a bold suggestion. And all, everything, had come from that one rebellion against nature and custom.
"I am not taking you among the world to-night," Bertie said to Estelle. "I've ordered a quiet supper in a quiet place."