Esmé knew the label—that of a huge shop close to the Place de l'Opera; good, but bourgeois, cheap.
"See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. It's too dark for you." Denise pulled out a stole of brown fox—a huge thing, covered with tails, but meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled as she touched it. This for all she had done for her friend.
"Thank you, Denise." Esmé took up the fur. "How pretty. It was nice of you to think of me, now that I am of no further use."
Denise looked up, startled by momentary fear. Surely Esmé was more than content with her share of the bargain. Was glad to be rid of her unwanted brat; to have ample allowance and be free. For a minute she saw what it might be if Esmé failed her.
But Denise was shallowly optimistic; she laughed the fears away; she kissed Esmé affectionately.
"It was a great thought, and it's splendidly over," she whispered—"over for us both."
"And you? You really begin to feel that he is yours?" whispered Esmé back, almost fiercely.
"I believe I do. I shall have forgotten it completely in ten years' time," laughed Lady Blakeney.
"And—shall I?" said Esmé to herself.