Esmé lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and tinned peas. She thought of the big houses she had been in; they must move, take a little house. This place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered flowers recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself to dinner.
The butler answered. "Yes, her ladyship would be dining in, he would ask." There was a long pause, then an answer. "Her ladyship would be pleased to see Mrs Carteret at eight."
"She might have spoken herself," said Esmé, angrily.
The afternoon dragged wearily. Esmé drove to one of the big shops, ordering new cushions, new coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave the flat and took no real interest in it.
She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not dressed. No message came asking her to go to her friend's room. Esmé had to learn that an obligation creates constraint, as the person we owe money to, however generously given, is never a welcome guest.
But Esmé left the pretty drawing-room. Its spaciousness made her envious, she stepped past Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little lightly-breathing thing lay asleep in his cot.
"But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esmé whispered.
"He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I feared croup, but it passed. It's a trying month, you see, for tiny children."
Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, Esmé stooped to kiss him, stood looking down at the child which ought to have been sleeping in the spare room at the flat.
But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, she told herself insistently.