Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures there.
Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them.
Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations.
"Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had just bought them for his table that evening."
So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl.
"Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things."
Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real lace.
The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with his cruel claws, rending her, hurting her mentally.
She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could not content her.
Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning.