They dined off minced chicken and fillet of beef, and breakfasted off cream and grape nuts. Mr Holbrook liked them because he had paid three hundred for Li Chi the pug, and two for Holboin Santoi the pomeranian.
"Luke," said Mrs Holbrook, taking her second cup of chilly tea. "Luke, I think we could do it; the Duchess may never know who she is."
"Do you really, my love?" said Holbrook, briskly. "Then I'll write to her manager and to her, enclosing a note from you. She will go so well with the bulbs—Critennery must be pleased."
Esmé had found a pile of letters waiting for her, long envelopes containing accounts rendered. She did not know where her money had gone to. Nothing seemed paid for.
She was going to her room, walking on carpets so thick that her feet sank into them, with all the silence of riches round her, doors which opened and shut noiselessly, deadened footsteps, when she stopped startled.
"Ah, Madame!" Marie, her late maid, smiled at her. "Ah, Madame." Marie was enchanted. She had regretted so that Madame had been obliged to part with her.
"I am with Milady Goold, Madame, and I see Madame has not been well; she is looking delicate, then."
"It was Italy." Esmé was nervous before the Frenchwoman, whose brown eyes looked at her with a curious shrewdness.
"Madame had much travelling with Milady Blakeney? I have been to Reggio, Madame; I have a cousin there."
Esmé turned swiftly to her door to hide her white cheeks. She recovered in a moment. Even if Marie did write or go there, there was nothing to find out. "Yes—it's a dull place, Marie," she said. "And when you're out of a place come back to me. Watson cannot do hair, Marie."