Something, stronger for the moment than her selfish love of amusement, fought with her. If she gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he would not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, guarding her. Esmé wavered. "I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," Bertie said; he was staring into the fire; had not noticed her agitation. "You know that queer old clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, for you." "I wanted it," said Esmé, fretfully. "A note from Lady Blakeney, madame." Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its plump softness, feeling the wad which the notes made. The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; refused to give it to the porter of the flats. "Oh!" Esmé opened it, her back to her husband. There were bank notes, crisp, delightful; she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each. Denise was beginning the payment already. "Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame will use the car to drive to luncheon. It is at Madame's service until five," Marie said. "Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned round. "You have a lot of friends, my Butterfly." Esmé crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell was gone. She wanted money, comfort, ease; the chance was hers, and she would take it. The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke Holbrook, the wine merchant. He paid his cook a clerk's income, and she earned her salary elaborately. What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly flour-like, who shall grumble if it is flecked with truffles, cocks-combs and pistachio nuts. No gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary people who are impressed by magnificence talked in hushed tones of the cook. The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; gold plate shone on the vast sideboard; orchids decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little woman who had married the big man obediently that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the magnificence placidly. She had a shrewd idea that outward show helped the business, and that they were not as rich as they seemed to be. The dining-room had been opened into the study so that it ran right across the house, and to increase the apparent size at the end wall was a huge mirror reflecting the room. They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook knew how to divide her guests. Esmé found herself one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young soldier vividly in love with the girl. "Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of cream pies done up in colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?" "Bertie has to go home." Esmé had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick and tired. "He doesn't like my going there." "To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," Sybil Chauntsey broke in. "They have such fun there."