Peer

“ I've run into debt counting on it," said Esmé, sullenly.
"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I could ask Cyrrie—but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esmé. You must make it do."
"You'll be away in August," Esmé said. "You can't send me so much in a cheque."
"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's wonderful—and I'm not afraid."
"Oh!" Esmé sat up. "And—if it's a son, Denise, your own son—you—what will you do?"
"Yet must the alien remain the heir." ”

“ The Town is swallowing home life, Estelle; the smell of the asphalte gets into their nostrils, the glitter and noise of restaurants become necessity. We cannot be bothered with a cook, so the restaurant for the flat can send us in what it chooses, called by any name it pleases. We get our breakfasts in now in the new flat. And anything else we want. Esmé only keeps two maids. Everything is exceedingly cold by the time I get it, and if we have people to dine it means crowds of things from Harrod's, but it all saves trouble. And to save trouble is the spirit of the age. ”

“ And then, for the first time, Esmé fainted; sank into a merciful blackness, lay cold and still, until Marie found her.
Estelle had decked her room with flowers; had put on a soft gown, when a messenger brought her a letter.
"Estelle, I will not come. You are not a woman for a selfish man to drag down. It is good-bye, and not good-bye for me, for I shall never lose sight of your dear face; but for you, you are a girl—young—forget me. Marry someone you can like; don't leave your life empty. Let home and the kiddies be the cloth to wipe my memory out with. Estelle, I've woken you. ”

“ With eyes which would not see Estelle and Bertie Carteret had put aside that day in Devonshire, tried to hide from each other how sweet it was to meet and talk, how easy to drop into the fatally intimate confidences when man and woman tell of their childhood, and their hopes and fears and foolish little adventures, as men and women only tell to those they care for.
"She is no swimmer," said Esmé, contemptuously, "that Reynolds girl."
"Your husband takes care of her." Denise Blakeney's laugh was full of spiteful meaning. "He will teach her to swim, belle Esmé." ”

“ She was not afraid of Jimmie, or of any man. Esmé did not know the lower depths Gore Helmsley was capable of in hours when he mixed with the underworld—the great stream which glides beneath London's surface.
"I'd love to," Esmé began.
And then again the sudden fear. May—this was May. In January there might be no hunting, no enjoyment, nothing but a weary waiting for what must be.
"I'll come," she said gaily; "I must have my hunting. Oh! I must!"
Gore Helmsley smiled softly. "And—drop a hint to Denise Blakeney to go slow," he said. "Those big men think a lot." ”

“ At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three she must have. ”

“ Esmé's new maid, looking in once, had slipped away unseen.
A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two people may enjoy themselves in the vast mother city of the world, away from where the golden shower of wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the fashion of the moment is impossible.
As they said good-bye on the doorstep—Estelle had her key—Bertie held her cool, slender hands in his; asked her if she would spend a day out of London with him. "Down in Devonshire," he said, "at Cliff End. I have to go there soon. ”

“ Tell her again and again how beautiful she was; find new perfection in her golden hair, her bright cheeks, the curves of her beauty.
Then in the mornings, when there was an hour before they need get up, when Esmé had put on a lace cap and got into some soft-hued wrapper, she would chatter gaily, but never of their future, of the home which Bertie, man-like, dreamt of; but of the day's doings, of luncheon and tea and dinner and theatre, of flying from place to place, from friend to friend. ”

“ Cyril Blakeney would not sell a dog to be beaten into submission—and the end was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a bad jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute his opinions; if they could not agree they listened to the arguments and wondered at their quiet shrewdness.
Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not come into her boudoir. She went up herself, fidgeting over her dresses, coming down at last in shimmering opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls at her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one pear-shaped and pink. ”

“ Cyril loved one cavalier, painted on a fiery charger, an impossible beast, all tail and eyes and nostril. The boy was happy staring at the picture, patting at the great frame. "Cyrrie's man," he would say. "Cyrrie's man."
"Oh, Cyril's man—all Cyril's men," Denise flashed out furiously. "No men for Cecil."
"Cecil not care for Cyril's man, mummie," the child's eyes looked wistfully at Denise. "He never look up yet."
"Oh, they'll all be yours—gloat over it!" snapped Denise. "Take your friend on, Mrs Stanson; show her the picture of Lady Mary Blakeney—the one by Lely. Yes, all yours!" ”

“ Strawberries in June are mere berries of no worth; asparagus in May becomes a comrade to cabbage. It is only that which costs much money which is of value in the eyes of the rich.
Hundreds of pounds on roses to decorate walls for one night; odd hundreds on a gown which will never be worn twice; the clerks, the poor, look on without envy, merely with admiration, with a glow perhaps of pride for the great country which can pour out gold as water.
Esmé Carteret, in a soft muslin gown, sat in her pretty drawing-room ”

“ Fresh air and exercise would banish the memory of the companion whose presence he longed for so much now.
"Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, with me as chief physician."
London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the taxi rushed to the flats; the streets called to Esmé; the restaurants were lighted up, glowing golden behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of the wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; the dreariness of the country.
"I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't understand. Town's my life, Bertie; all my pals are here. ”

“ Denise was tottering behind them, wild with fear, grey-faced, all beauty reft from her.
"God send," said Sir Cyril, reverently, "that both come to, and we live to repay for the blight we cast on your wife's name, Carteret."
"I cast a worse one," said Bertie, fiercely.
Then long-drawn working, as the living strive with death, as the poor quiet body is forced to life. But no working brought a quiver to little Cyril; they left him at last quiet in his cot; the motherless boy was at peace for ever.
Esmé's breath came fluttering. ”

“ Esmé, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless certainty of finding another capture.
But with a net woven about him, a strong net made of such soft stuff that it did not hurt, the captive bird was caught for life, meshed, ensnared for ever.
"Come—it is late," Bertie said.
As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush on her cheeks deepen, her hands grow cold. There is a wonder to all in the dawn of love ”

“ Suspicion is a seed which, sown, grows, and will not be hoed up. Bertie came into his wife's room as she lay asleep, and looked sadly at her pale face. There was a small room next door, lined with cupboards; he went to it, opened the doors, saw the shimmer of satins and silks, the softness of chiffon and lace, the gleam of rich embroidery—dress upon dress. He had loved to see her well dressed, and not dreamt of the great cost of some of these mere wisps of evening gowns. Sixty pounds! Bertie shut the doors, feeling mean, as if he had spied, but he was not satisfied. ”

“ Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in her flashing way; brilliantly, a little haggardly, pretty. The patches of pink were more pronounced on her cheeks, her powder thicker.
Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered Sybil Chauntsey. Here was another woman about to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. Deep, too, in Esmé's mind, was a horror of sinning. She was instinctively pure herself; her ideas set deeply in a bed of conventionality. ”

“ Denise faltered.
"Once, milady—to ask for Master Cyril; and again to say, 'Let it rest.'"
"Ah!" The greyness slipped from Denise's cheeks. The dead cannot speak. After all, she was to escape.
Then, his big bulk filling the door, her husband came in, Carteret following.
"Oh! oh!" she cried, and held her hands out, sobbing. "Oh, Cyrrie! the boy and poor Esmé. She died to save him. Oh!"
"You can go, Mrs Stanson." The sick fear crept back to Denise Blakeney's heart. "Yes, Cyrrie is gone; and now, Denise, you will tell the truth." ”

“ Other girls would sit quiet in shady nooks. Youth loves its picnics where it may wander in couples; and mamma loves them, knowing how sunshine and fresh air and the folly of shrimp-hunting all lead to the hour when the young man feels he cannot do without the merry, pretty, foolish thing who cries "A crab!" and clings to him.
Denise had asked young people; she had no London friends down here. She watched them pair off as she sat down in the shade—listened to shrill laughs and merry voices.
Esmé, yawning, bored again, strolled away alone; there was no one she wanted to talk to. ”

“ I'm weary of cream pies done up in colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?"
"Bertie has to go home." Esmé had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick and tired. "He doesn't like my going there."
"To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," Sybil Chauntsey broke in. "They have such fun there."
Her peach bloom deepened; the beauty of youth, which is as no other beauty, sparkled in her deep grey eyes.
The big dark man looked at her, his own eyes taking fire. These men delight in rosebuds, find an unflagging zest in seeing the tender petals unfold to their hot admiration. ”

“ Now that he sat thinking he knew there had been none of the intimacy of married lovers; no scheming for their dual interests, no planning of some little trip to be taken together, none of the talks which wed man and woman more surely than the service ordained by law. Nothing but love and laughter. Together, with the world shut out, Bertie must not talk of ordinary things, but of Esmé. She would lean against him, exquisite, perfect, silken draperies merely veiling her long, rounded limbs, and he must talk of her alone. ”