And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she grumbled at might—would—pass to something smaller. To a house in a cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the child she dreaded.
Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour high as she raced on.
"Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esmé cannoned into Gore Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively.
A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high colour constituted good looks. Women admired him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently.
"Neither. I was running away from my own thoughts."
"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women hurried to escape their thoughts Gore Helmsley thought he could guess at the meaning.
"I feel lost to-day." Esmé was glad to find a friend to speak to. "Poor, an outcast amid the wealth of London."
"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as though the world denied her nothing."
"A week ago she would have said so. To-day—" Esmé frowned.
The dark man used his own dictionary. He had grown to admire this dazzling woman. Discontent on married lips generally meant the fruit grew weary of its tree and would come lightly to the hand stretched to pick it.