Dulcie, flat on the lounge, swathed in a crash bathrobe, replied only by a slight but reassuring flutter of one hand.
Esmé Trenor sauntered in for a gossip, wearing his celebrated lilac-velvet jacket and Louis XV slippers.
“Oh, the devil,” he drawled, looking from Dulcie to the Arethusa; “she’s worth more than your amateurish statuette, Garry.”
“You bet she is. And here’s where her vacation begins.”
Esmé turned to Dulcie, lifting his eyebrows:
“You go away with him?”
The idea had never before entered Barres’s head. But he said:
“Certainly; we both need the country for a few weeks.”
“You’ll go to one of those damned artists’ colonies, I suppose,” remarked Esmé; “otherwise, washed and unwashed would expel shrill cries.”