"Bless you! who's got 'em nowadays? We only treasure visiting lists," he mocked. After a time Esmé talked herself, found herself enjoying the ever-pleasant task of pulling our friends to pieces, added a new whisper or two for Sir Thomas to elaborate. "Just left the new Penelope, haven't you?" he said. "Denise Blakeney--she's into the starch bag after several years in hot water. No one but Cyrrie now, and he--well, he was always a gorgon husband. Saw a parson gazing at Denise last month at her big garden-party. 'There is a model of English wifehood, of truth and purity,' he said to something in brown muslin, whom I fancy was his wife." "And if he knew," flashed Esmé, indignantly, and stopped. "Knew what?" Sir Thomas grew interested. "A little secret." Esmé's face grew grave. "Pah! if we all knew each other's secrets. If you knew mine and I yours." "Haven't got any," he said comfortably. "Secrets are the kind of things you've to keep a flat for and a motor which they drive some other fellow out in. A day's amusement is my sort. But--you--you're a bit of a Penelope yourself, Mrs Carteret." "Anything else is so stupid," said Esmé, laughing. Sir Thomas, falling into complete bewilderment, asked Esmé to dinner when he found she was really alone. To forget her misery she was hilariously gay, telling smart little stories, flashing out sharp speeches, amusing the little man immensely. "Kind of woman you don't know what to make of," grumbled Sir Thomas. "Lets you kiss her ear in the taxi, and gives yours a verbal boxing when you suggest supper in a quiet room. Gets herself up to look like what she's not, and is frightfully offended when she's taken for it. Tires one's eyes, that class of cipher. We'll read plain print again demain, thank the Lord." Folly would never be Esmé's refuge; she sat in her room, her sleeping draught ready, wondering what life would be like if, for mere amusement, she had been what Sir Thomas took her for. There was not even a pretension of affection, but merely: "We are well met. You are pretty, your skin is soft, your eyes are bright; let us see how much joy we can steal from Time's storehouse." "There must be crowds of people who are like that or he wouldn't think it so natural," said Esmé. "I believe Dollie wouldn't care--or Denise, once--but I--I could never forget my miseries by becoming a beast." Then, soothed by the drug, she slept soundly, to wake with a parched mouth and heavy head, and lie tossing feverishly because her tea was late. There were the three dresses. Fretting for them--more because she wanted to fret than because she really wanted them--Esmé went to the telephone. "Is that Madame? No? Well, give her a message. Tell her I'll send over a cheque for those dresses from London. To alter and keep them for me--Mrs Carteret."