"Right? What do you mean, Scott?" "Mrs Carteret's were not always, sir," snapped Scott, primly. "Several shops have had to apply again. Thank you, sir. Good-night." The block of a fat cheque-book was looked at unhappily. The balance left was so small, and there was no more money due until Christmas. Bertie Carteret sighed drearily. Another lot of shares must go; long-suffering luck be trusted to replace them. Esmé, in one of her gay moods, came down, dressed in filmy white, black velvet wound in her burnished hair, a glittering necklace at her throat. She chattered incessantly, hung about Bertie with one of her outbursts of affection. Marie had given Madame ah, but a tiny thing for the nairves, a thing she had learnt of at Madame la Comtesse's and treasured the prescription. Marie had prescribed further, suggested massage, a sure cure for nervous ills. Esmé made plans in her head; leapt from reckless despair to reckless hope. She spent in imagination the big allowance Bertie's uncle would give them; she saw herself "my lady." She felt clinging fingers in hers, saw baby faces in her house. She would brush away the effect of her own wicked folly; she would be happy and rich and contented. So, with her thoughts leaping ahead, she frightened Bertie by talking of her plans; they comprised country houses, a yacht, hunters, jewels, new frocks. "I'll have that sable coat altered. The Furrier Company will do it for a hundred pounds. I'm sick of it. We'll go to Tatts, Bertie, and buy you a couple of hunters." "Out of what?" he asked gravely. "Out of--futurity," Esmé laughed. "Estelle, don't look sensible; it worries me. Look here, children, I'm not well. I'm going over to Paris to see Legrand. That dull doctor's wife I met to-day says he can cure death itself. And then, when I am well--" With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched on the arm of Bertie's chair, her fingers caressing his hair. "And then," she said, bending and whispering to him. He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in his. "Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice--"for that, Esmé." "For that. Then I'll settle down--give up Society," she said, jumping up and running to the window. "Come, we'll go out and join the trippers. I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. No, we won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. They'll always play.... It's too dull just walking out in the dark." It was always too dull to do anything which left room for thought. Esmé played until morning, then, with the effect of the nerve tonic worn off, went irritably upstairs, knowing that nothing but chloral would give her rest that night. "Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must sleep alone. That will do, Marie. You can go." Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to put on, but Esmé sent the maid away. Marie laid down the scented silken thing and went thoughtfully. CHAPTER XII