His hands pressing hers, his voice was more eloquent than words.
"No more? After all these months, Esmé," he said. "Here, where no one watches, where it is so easy to arrange—where—"
Esmé Carteret sat up in her chair, impatient, annoyed; she interrupted again sharply.
"Where people make awful fools of themselves," she said.
Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet fools," he muttered, and stooping suddenly, he kissed her.
Esmé got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. "My husband said no woman could trust you," she said coldly. "Come—I am going in."
Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized that Esmé would never be pieced into the puzzle of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he endeavoured to hide it, and Esmé's faint malicious smile made him her enemy for life.
Except for the kiss he had not committed himself in any way, and except for her one sharp speech Esmé had said nothing to show resentment; they talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had thrown and lost.
Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, while she had been involved in a romping dance, came towards the veranda. The partitions each held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, whispers, low-toned laughter.
From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, as indiscreetly he muttered his adoration.