Sapphires would not go with the pearl and diamond necklace. Esmé's slim fingers picked up the pearl pendant, held it longingly.
It was the only possible thing, and even then not quite right, but it would do, she said.
"You've such perfect taste, child. Luke always says so. So glad I met you. Well, see you soon again—to-morrow. We've a large party."
Men and women buying lovely—perhaps unneeded—jewels, spending hundreds, thousands, that they might see someone turn to look at their adornments. A millionaire American grumbled over the merits of pearls spread on purple velvet.
He wanted something extra. "Get these anywhere. Mrs Cyrus J. Markly was going to Court. He'd promised she should have a string to knock creation. No, these wouldn't do."
Hurried calling on heads of departments, rooting into hidden safes. Fresh glistening treasures laid out.
Mr Markly might trust Benhusan's. The rope with its diamond links and clasps should be magnificent. He might leave it in their hands. They would ransack London for perfect pearls.
With a little gasp of impatience Esmé Carteret went out.
She wanted money. Mere comfort was nothing to her to-day.
Furs are neglected in summer, but Esmé strolled into the great Bond Street store. She was sending a coat for alteration and storage.