No one expected sacrifice from Esmé; she was too pretty, too brilliant, to endure worry or trouble. Bertie Carteret smiled at her. She should stay at home. They would soon get something else to do, and he would come back.
Esmé bent across to him that day, her face set in unwonted thought.
"Just think if your Uncle Hugh had no sons," she said, "he'd leave you everything. We'd be rich then."
Bertie laughed. Two boys made barrier between him and hopes of the Carteret money.
A pleasure-loving pair, absolutely happy in their way. Well enough off to have all they wanted, and pleasant enough to get the rest from their friends.
They chattered through breakfast of engagements, parties, trips, of days filled to the brim. Bertie was lunching at the Bath Club. Esmé, with her friend, Denise Blakeney, at the Carlton.
"And oh, Bert—ring up those fruiterer people. Dollie dines here to-morrow. We must have strawberries, and asparagus—the fat kind—and peas, Bert. She had them—Dollie. I don't want her to go away and talk of 'those poor Carterets and their mutton chops'—and send in matron glaces, Bert, and sweets from Buzzard's, will you, and some Petit Fours for tea."
"Anything else?" he said. "Esmé, do you know, my Butterfly, that we spend every penny we have, and a little more?"
With a laugh she slipped a supple arm about his neck. "And why not?" she said lightly—"why not, Sir Croaker?"
He drew her to his knee, kissing her firm neck, her soft arms—on fire to her touch.