It was too cold, too bitter to walk about. They rang up friends, played bridge. Esmé ordered dinner at the flat, asked Dolly to come down and bring a man, then telephoned imperiously to the new cook.
"Dinner for four, order what you want. It must be nice, remember. It must be. Get some forced things, sweets, have salmon. Use your wits."
"It is a dear little hole. I'll be sorry to leave it," Bertie said, as they came back to the brightly-lighted little drawing-room. "Why do you want to, girlie?"
"It's so out of the way," Esmé grumbled.
The new maid put her into a dress of clinging black. One must mourn for first cousins.
Dolly was full of curiosity. Bertie was heir now. It was quite a change. "So nice, dear Esmé, to come to one of your wonderful little dinners again."
The only wonder of this dinner was its expense. The new cook had gone to Harrod's stores, chosen everything which cost money. Tinned turtle soup, plain boiled salmon, tinned and truffled entrée, tinned chicken, and a bought sweet.
Esmé grew angrier as it went on. Hated the guests' lack of appetite, their polite declaimers as she abused her food.
"I begin to hate this place," Esmé stormed to Dolly. "It's too small, good servants won't come here. Hardness was a good chance. She's gone to Denise Blakeney now, she can afford to pay her what she wanted, I couldn't."
Cards too went against Esmé. She lost and lost again, made declarations which depended on luck, and found it desert her. They did not play for high points, but she made side bets, and it mounted up. She cut with Bertie, saw his eyebrows raise as she went a reckless no trumper.