She was talking to Luke Holbrook, smiling at him, but the smile had lost its girlish charm; the kindly man who had been willing to help a young couple not well off had no idea of losing money to this brilliant woman.
Holbrook was always simply open as to his trade.
"I didn't forget your bundle of wines, fairest lady, they went on to-day." Mr Holbrook started and put up his glasses. "My love," he said, turning to his wife, "I see Lord Boredom taking tea with Miss Moover, and Mr Critennery is over there alone. My love, I fear I did not advance our interests by that most unfortunate invitation."
"The Duchess," said Mrs Holbrook, "will have a stroke. No one ever broke Miss Mavis Moover's occupation to her Grace."
"Ready, Esmé? You want a taxi back. Very well." Carteret went to the door. Before he had gone away Esmé had been quite content to take the motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or to go by tube. He sighed a little as he feed the gigantic person who hailed the cab for him.
"They've either come into some money, my love, or it is the Italian Prince whom Dollie Cavendish hints at," said Luke Holbrook, thoughtfully.
"What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esmé as they sped down Piccadilly. "What clothes, Bertie. I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon."
"They were very good to me out there," he said quickly. "And ... I did not notice Miss Reynolds's dowdiness."
"No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who goes with dowdiness. All flat hair and plaintive eyes." Esmé laughed. "Is she the good housekeeper who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?"
He looked out without answering. Something was coming between him and his wife. A rift, opening slowly in the groundwork of their love and happiness. She had changed.