"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle--seventy guineas." "Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you bargain-hunting, Es?" "No--_I_ have no money." Esmé looked almost sullenly at the stole which Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat." "What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so lovely yesterday, dear." Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately. "Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's sea, where you people swim. Yes--we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye." Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures there. Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them. Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations. "Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had just bought them for his table that evening." So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl. "Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things." Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real lace. The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with his cruel claws, rending her, hurting her mentally. She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could not content her. Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning. And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she grumbled at might--would--pass to something smaller. To a house in a cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the child she dreaded. Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour high as she raced on. "Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esmé cannoned into Gore Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively.