The heart of woman delights in self-sacrifice. Estelle knew that she would lose the world gladly to make her man happy. She was pure enough to look passion in the face and not hide hers; to joy in the thought of giving herself and to realize what it would mean.
"I will come to-morrow," Bertie said, his hands heavy on her bare shoulders, his eyes more eloquent than words.
The discreet waiter came padding noiselessly, took his bill and tip.
"But not our sort," he muttered, as Estelle went out.
Bertie Carteret walked home alone. Estelle would not let him drive with her. Far up the stars blinked in a violet sky, the cool spring wind blew against his flushed face. Having been, up to the present, a mere ordinary honourable man, he was miserable. Gloss it over as he might he knew what he was asking for.
The tall mass of the mansions towered high above him; he hated the place, its comfortless show.
"Mr and Mrs Rabbit, who live in a warren," he said, as he let himself in.
The little sitting-room was dusty, neglected, but he sat in it smoking until the stars went out and grey dawn came sickly pale to oust the night.
A motor siren bleated below. After a little he heard the swish of silk. Esmé, haggard and flushed, came into the room.
How she had changed. The childish look had gone for ever, replaced by a hard bitterness, by mirthless smiles.