"With no dresses to come to me but those in violet silks or of the colour called tomato!" cried Marie. "Oh, Madame! And with no life, no gaiety, nothing but five-o'clock parties, and long luncheons, and, madame--oh, but raging when she lost at the bridge. Mon Dieu! So I left Madame. It is true one night I did put on the false plait--oh, but not carefully, for a dinner, but after a great scolding my fingers did tremble. Madame's great guest was an Eveque, what you call down Church, and strict. James the footman told me, and it was dreadful; it was to his lap the loose plait fell. I left. Madame is ravishing, and I would I were again in the service of my dear Madame." It was easily arranged. Esmé forgot that Marie might know a little and guess more. She sent the irate Scott away immediately, and directed Marie to the house they were lodging in. A glance at the glass had made Marie seem indispensable; a brilliantly handsome face was reflected there now, pink-cheeked, white-skinned, smooth. "Esmé! What have you been doing? We are hopelessly late, and we are driving you." "All my powder was washed off"--Esmé was frank, up to a certain point--"I'm sorry, Denise." "And Cyril will bring the children; they are gone in the small car." Denise was irritated, impatient. Sir Cyril drove; a big, pearl-grey Mercedes hummed away, nosing through traffic, sensitive as a child, eager as a hunter. The picnic was on the cliffs, miles away. They lunched in a dazzling sun, since it is ever in the mind of man that he enjoys himself more away from his own cool dining-room, seated on hard ground in the heat. The Blakeneys' cook knew that which was indigestible and therefore indispensable. Lobster mayonnaise, cold salmon, devilled shrimps, galantines, pastry, whipped cream. The appetite of picnickers is a great thing, and one which towards tea-time wonders what possessed it. But girls laughed merrily, planning strolls by the shimmering sea; they had brought shrimp nets. Girls with pretty, unspoiled feet would take off shoes and stockings and paddle into pools, treacherous places where one slipped and wanted help to steady one. 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. The sea had slipped far out; opal-tinted pools gleamed on the sands and shingle; brown seaweed clung to the rocks.