"She was a witch," he told her, "and a Butterfly, hovering over a man's heart." She should have her strawberries, her sweeties. "And—what is it?"
For Esmé had turned white, put her hand to her throat, a sudden nausea seizing her.
"I've been like that twice before," she said; "it's the racket. Bertie, I don't feel up to luncheon now, and I like to be hungry when I lunch with Denise. Oh, thank you, dear."
For he brought smelling-salts, holding the fragrant, pungent, scented stuff to her nostrils. He was genuinely anxious.
"It's nothing," she said lightly; "something disagreed with me."
"Lunching with Denise?" He lighted his pipe. Carteret was not a cigarette-smoker. "Ever see Blakeney with her now, girlie?"
"No-o," she said reluctantly.
"H'm! I hear they're not too good pals. Denise has been playing the fool with young Jerry Roche—the 'wily fish' as they call him. She'd better not go too far with Cyril Blakeney. I was at school with him—came just when he left. But I knew his brother there also. I tell you, Esmé, they're a bad lot to vex."
Esmé shook her head thoughtfully.
"Hope Jimmie Helmsley won't be at luncheon," Carteret went on. "Steer clear of him, old dear."