Denise Blakeney was there, a stole of black fox spread before her.
"Summer prices, my lady. See, a rare bargain."
"And out of fashion by September or October; but it is good." Denise held up the soft fur. "Oh! you, Esmé! See, shall I have it? These things are always useful."
Esmé stroked the supple softness of the furs, held the wrap longingly.
"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle—seventy guineas."
"Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you bargain-hunting, Es?"
"No—I have no money." Esmé looked almost sullenly at the stole which Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat."
"What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so lovely yesterday, dear."
Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately.
"Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's sea, where you people swim. Yes—we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye."