"Where people make awful fools of themselves," she said. Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet fools," he muttered, and stooping suddenly, he kissed her. Esmé got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. "My husband said no woman could trust you," she said coldly. "Come--I am going in." Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized that Esmé would never be pieced into the puzzle of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he endeavoured to hide it, and Esmé's faint malicious smile made him her enemy for life. Except for the kiss he had not committed himself in any way, and except for her one sharp speech Esmé had said nothing to show resentment; they talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had thrown and lost. Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, while she had been involved in a romping dance, came towards the veranda. The partitions each held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, whispers, low-toned laughter. From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, as indiscreetly he muttered his adoration. "Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil passed. "You shall haf the pearl--so that I clasp it on your neck." A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted doorway; Sybil had met him in London--Lord Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her. "What the--why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" he said slowly. "I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. "It was fun, wasn't it? I made mother let me come." She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of her chiffon sleeves torn. "Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I thought your mother"--he paused--"did not know the Bellews." "Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. He wanted me to come down to see it all." Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. "Let me motor you up to town to-morrow. Leave this place." Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not enjoying herself. There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the Bellews. People who liked to come down strolled in to a meal which was kept hot until twelve. Others breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women in silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend to join them in the rose-covered partitions outside their windows. The fresh air of a June day came whispering across the water and the shaven lawns. Later it would be very hot, but as yet the coolness of the dew was on the grass; the sun beamed softly gold through fresh green leaves. Esmé smiled a little, for, coming into the breakfast-room, she saw that Jimmie Gore Helmsley meant to have no more to do with her. He did not come to her table, get her fruit, hang over her lovingly. Sybil, fresh as the day itself, was listening to his caressing voice, tasting her first plate of delicately-flavoured flattery. Feminine eighteen comes gaily to its breakfast. It has had no weary thoughts to trouble it, no fading skin to cream and powder.