Bertie Carteret's face grew pale. He stood up, gathering the bills. "I had no idea that you were unhappy, Es," he said slowly. "We used to manage so well before I left. It was all sunshine then. I have some money I can dig out; we'll pay the bills and start again. Give me all yours to see."
Indulgence made Esmé penitent, almost grateful. That was right. Now Bertie was a dear, a sweet old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, just as last year's had been.
She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face pressed against his, the perfume of her golden hair in his nostrils.
But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple body in his arms, Bertie Carteret did not hold her closer; she missed his quick sigh at her contact, the hotness of his kisses on her neck.
"Bertie, dear old Bert."
But as she moved her face a little he could see between him and the light the skilfully-applied red on her cheeks, the coating of powder round it. It was not love for him which brought her to him, but selfish relief at being released from worry. "Poor Butterfly," he said, kissing her gently. "It shall flutter through its summer. But spent capital means less income, Esmé, remember that."
"Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, looking at it. Esmé ran her finger down the items, there were no wholesale prices now. The hock was at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, she railed at Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and mean and treacherous. Swore that if she could help it he would not get his peerage.
"The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall maid, coming in with a bundle of flowers.
"Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle them for me, she is coming to lunch. And your Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten."
"You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said Carteret; "after all, they wither just as soon."