He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how everyone loved her; poured out the flattery she was never tired of.
"We can't do anything for these people; they are content to see you. Your face is repayment," he said. "No one would bother about me without you, sweetheart. You were born for society."
"Yes." Esmé's voice grew strained. If Fate had sent her Arthur Ellis and his coal mines! How she would have loved to act hostess in the big town house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put the thought away, almost angrily, for she loved Bertie.
Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips on hers, she missed something. Was she growing older that kisses failed to thrill?
"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I have not been well all day."
Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a moment she was querulous, irritable, all the evening's happiness gone again.
It was time to dress. People were coming to dine; there would be new salad; iced rice cunningly flavoured. But the thought of food made Esmé wretched.
"I want to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost whimpered to her glass.
Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose nothing.
"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the impossible things as I did to-day," she said aloud, with the idea—too common with humanity—that one may strike a bargain with Fate.