Quiet Estelle, watching, felt the longing in her blood grow stronger; was youth to pass and leave her unwoken by a lover? Was she never to know the madness of hot kisses, the restful heaven of the afterwards? "I dreamt once that I had found Spring"--Bertie's voice sounded far away to her--"and it was a mocking wraith. Estelle, if we might find it together--you and I." "If!" She moved her hands to the time of a haunting dance. The house was full. People who had been the Carterets' friends were here and there. Dollie Gresham, with the Blakeneys; the Holbrooks in a box, often looking sadly at a pair in the stalls--the Marquis and Marchioness of Boredom. One big box at the left, empty until the middle of the second act, was suddenly filled by a noisy crowd. Three women came to the front, throwing back rich cloaks, showing over-bare necks and arms, flashing with jewels; the background was filled in with the black-and-white uniform of dining mankind. "Esmé," Bertie whispered, "with those people." Poor Esmé, glaring defiance at the friends who had cut her, her cheeks scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly handsome still, but haggard, bad style, laughing too gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless happiness too openly. And straight opposite, Denise, quietly dressed, placidly happy, avoiding Esmé's challenging looks. The parts had been played and gone strangely for the players. "My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd of fourth-rate impossibilities--and looking...." He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do you think a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she may not see us." A vain hope. Esmé's restless eyes looked everywhere. She started, turned laughingly to Lord Francis Dravelling. "See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she said, "there, in the stalls. I used to like the girl once, but I leave her to Bertie now." "Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring Esmé. Then he whispered to her eagerly. Esmé's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly. Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was sitting with another woman, and she was listening, without anger, to a bold suggestion. And all, everything, had come from that one rebellion against nature and custom. "I am not taking you among the world to-night," Bertie said to Estelle. "I've ordered a quiet supper in a quiet place." It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a warm room, its stiffness tempered by huge bowls of flowers, supper laid on the table. The waiter discreetly presumed that they would ring if he was required; he left them with a faintly un-waiter-like grin. Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic and foie gras, but drank champagne; glad as the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted work. It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers filled the room; the fire burnt brightly. They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow of the blazing coals.