But Luke Holbrook, who had been glad to help a pretty girl in a tiny flat, saw no reason for losing a profit to a woman in magnificent sables.
"Want more hock?" he said. "The same as last, eh? Yes, I told you to ask me—but it's gone up—gone up, and whisky too, and port.... I'll send it on to you. Kind of me. It's my business, pretty lady, my business. No bother at all."
Esmé did not realize that he meant to charge her full price.
"We've had such a hunt, we came back early." Sybil Chauntsey ran into the hall in her habit, young Knox close behind her. Mrs Holbrook approved of love. She had asked them together. "Oh, such a run," babbled Sybil. "And my chestnut was glorious, the dear."
"Jimmie always said that the chestnut was his best horse." Mousie Cavendish's thin lips curved in a spiteful smile.
Young Knox started, looked at Sybil.
"I thought it was your own horse," he said gravely.
"Captain Gore Helmsley lent him to me for the season. I call him mine. I thought that you knew."
"No, I did not." The young soldier seemed to have forgotten his gallop; he looked tired and put out.
"The car, madam, is ready." A butler who bore the mark of experience stamped upon his impassive face came forward. Esmé fastened her coat, asked for a companion—Mrs Cavendish would come. Her spiteful tongue made light strokes at reputations as the car hummed along. No one escaped. No one was immune. She had come to drive to find out who had given Esmé the coat, for the fair girl had never made herself auspicious.