"That is a wonderful coat." Bertie looked admiringly at his wife. "You're wonderful altogether, Esmé, this time. With the stamp of Paris on your frocks. But of course Denise gave you heaps of things. You did a lot for her."
Esmé began to plan, to grow brighter. "We must take a little house, Bertie, get away from that box, nearer our friends."
"But we shall be no better off," he said.
"Oh, you must get money out of the old man. We'll save the rent on taxis. Who is it, Bertie?"
For Bertie had jumped up and was shaking hands with a slim girl of about twenty. Brown-haired, grey-eyed, pretty in a quiet way.
"It's Miss Reynolds," he said. "Miss Reynolds, Esmé. Mrs Reynolds was so kind to me at Pretoria when I was ill."
"Ill!" Esmé held out a jewelled hand. "I thought it was only repentance and indigestion."
"It was fever." Estelle Reynolds's voice was slow and musical, restful as her gentle face. "Captain Carteret was very ill, and my uncle tried to cure him."
"No idea," said Esmé. "I'd no idea. But so good of you.... Bertie, you should have told me." She was honestly fond of her husband.
"He did not want to worry you," said Estelle Reynolds.