She would be. Hope spread his wings again.
She telephoned to Bertie and met him for tea.
For a few hours she was content again. The flat looked its prettiest. Her flowers were lovely. Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; their fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the vases.
Esmé tried to love it all, to realize that in her way she wanted nothing. She had been so happy with Bertie in their careless life.
She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the flat. She laughed as he did accounts.
"Butterfly, we spend every penny we have got, and a little more besides." He looked up into her radiant face. "We seem—we seem to buy a lot of things, Es."
"Not half as many things as we ought to." She put her cheek to his. "We want all new chair coverings, Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned."
"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely.
"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have to have got the hat in any case, you see. And if I do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?"
With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, with her soft cheek against his own, could he say or think so? He was losing time up there, rusting when he ought to have been with his regiment, all for Esmé's sake, because she loved London. But if it made her happy it was enough.