"Debts," he said wearily. "We're the old proverbial china crock, Mrs Gresham, trying to swim with the brass one. What does it cost a woman to dress, Mrs Gresham?" "It costs Esmé about fifteen hundred a year," said Dollie, shrewdly. "Claire is ruinous now. Never an evening frock under sixty, and the etceteras at so much an ounce. Then Esmé's furs are all new. She's a bad little lady going to Claire, and Lilie in Paris." "Fifteen hundred!" Bertie laughed. "No, about three; and it's far more than I can manage." "Three--grandmothers!" observed Dollie, blandly. "You see Claire's little bill and tell me then. You're very extravagant children. Esmé paid those electric people fifty pounds before you left London, and taxis are just as good." "Fifty pounds!" Bertie shuffled the cards silently. He had not given Esmé fifty pounds for the garage. He certainly did not pay Claire's bill. His payments had been to big drapers, and to a tailor. A sudden sickening doubt was assailing him. Was Esmé getting money he did not know of? Was he one among the hundreds of fooled husbands? He flung the thought away, and turned to the game, and played carefully. But on the way home the thought returned. "Esmé, we must pay these people," he said, trying to speak carelessly. "Not let it get too high." "Oh, I sent them a sop to Cerberus months ago--a big one." "But--I never gave it to you." "No." He saw her hand move impatiently. "No, it was bridge winnings, I suppose. Or when Poeticus won the Hunt Cup. I forget." 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. Had Esmé some way of getting money? Instead of sleeping, he did accounts; got up frowning, to go to sleep at last in the grey bleakness of an autumn morning, to wake with the little parasite, suspicion, gnawing at his heart. He went into his wife's room after his breakfast; she did not come down for hers now. Esmé was up, her golden hair loose, waiting to have some brightening stuff rubbed into it. She was bending over her jewel-case, choosing a necklace and pendant to wear. "This clasp is loose, Marie; the clasp of these sapphires"--Esmé held up a thin chain holding together little clusters of sapphires and diamond sparks. "It's--oh! you, Bertie!" "That's new, isn't it, Esmé?" He took the chain from her. "New--if a year old is new." "And this"--he snapped open two or three cases, holding glittering toys. "I didn't give you any of these, did I?"