Esmé moved impatiently. "Paste," she said suddenly. "Parisian! I can't go about always wearing the same old things, so I am foolish, and get these." "Oh, paste!" He was putting back a pendant when he looked at the setting. Surely paste had a backing, was not set clear. "They're wonderfully done," he said gravely. The satin lining of the case bore a Bond Street jeweller's name. "Oh, wonderfully." Esmé snapped the case to. "And I get the cases so as to deceive my friends' maids. Run away, Bertie, you worry me standing there." He went slowly. Esmé was lying to him. The things were real. Her jewel-box was full of new toys and trifles; he began to realize that her dresses were magnificent. Her letters lay in a litter on her bureau, some half-opened, all tossed about as if they had worried her. One long slip oozed from its envelope, with a huge total at its foot. It was a bill for new furs. Another thick envelope bore the word "Claire" on the back. A man has a right to see his wife's bills. Bertie took out the letter. Madame Claire begged immediately for a cheque on account. She really must have a few--Bertie turned white--a few hundreds. A smaller slip of paper was enclosed. Amount of account furnished, three hundred and ten pounds. Yellow evening gown, lace overdress, seventy pounds. Blue tea gown, forty pounds. The total was for five hundred pounds. Bertie laid it down with a sick feeling of despair. He could not pay this. It was impossible. Five hundred pounds to a dressmaker. Dollie Gresham had been right in her estimate. He sat looking at the dull blue of the drawing-room carpet, sat thinking hopelessly. Then Esmé, in dull blue-green, masses of black making a foil to her fair skin, came back. A faint perfume clung about her, nothing emphasized, but the memory of sachets or little pieces of perfumed skin sewn into her dress. The necklace of small sapphires and diamonds glistened at her throat. She was humming gaily, ready to write to Denise. "Esmé!" Bertie raised his white face. "Bertie! Have the Germans taken London, or is Lloyd George made Regent? Or--you're not ill, Bertie?" "We can't go on, Esmé," he said. "I saw your account on your bureau there. Esmé, I can't pay it, unless we sell everything--go away." He saw her hand clench, but she did not look at him. "How dared you pry?" she began, then checked herself. "Paul Pry!" she mocked. "Paul Pry! But I can pay it." "You? How?" he asked, getting up. "How? I've won a lot lately," she said, after a pause. "I got some tips. I can pay it, Bertie." "You've got money to your account, then?" he said, for he knew that she was lying again. "Not now." "Bookmakers," said Bertie, "pay on Mondays. Who is your man?" "Oh! _don't_ bother, Bertie." Her hands shook as she began to write. "Denise did the bet for me. I'm writing to ask her to send it on now." "Oh!" he said, more quietly still. "I backed first one and then another," she said; "got it that way. So don't fret, Boy."