"Coming out to-morrow to Welcombe," he said. "We're all training down."
Esmé's face clouded.
"I can't afford it. I owe the man twenty pounds. I've done two days this week."
A year ago Esmé would have almost expected a horse offered to her. Major Jackson had fifteen of them; she had only to look appealing then, talked of poverty, and horses came as from the clouds.
Now he too looked at her coat. Its owner could not want help.
"Other engagements," he chaffed lightly. "You're losing your keenness, Mrs Carteret. Fact."
Esmé turned away ill-humouredly. They drove back to Coombe Regis, the open car humming through the cool spring afternoon. Mousie Cavendish questioning, surmising, as they went.
The palm court was crowded now, partitions had been knocked away, a room thrown in to make it large enough; there was no gathering round for tea. Trays were placed on the little glass-topped satinwood tables. Hot biscuits and scones were kept hot on electric heaters. The butler laid a species of buffet covered with huge iced cakes, and relays of sandwiches if the supplies on each tray were not sufficient.
"Only one thing required—cold roast beef and plum pudding," Mousie said ill-naturedly, as she looked at it. The tea-pots were all silver gilt, the little piles of cakes and sandwiches rested on real lace. In the drawing-room Mrs Holbrook gathered her dullest guests at a table, where she poured out tea herself, away from the more clouded atmosphere of the hall.
Several expensive toy dogs sat about on the blue and gold brocade and ate scraps of cake merely to oblige the guests.