At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three she must have. And this--and this blouse; another dress and scarf. Esmé had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked dubious. "I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a half-yearly price. "That brown--you'll copy it at once?" "Ah, yes--shortly." But Madame was pressed. "Milady Blakeney had been in ordering a dozen frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes." Denise again before her, dwarfing her, Esmé's, orders. The coat seemed heavier now. She bought hats almost languidly; passed a jeweller's window, saw a necklace, a thing of diamonds and emeralds exquisite in its fine work, with one great diamond swinging from the fret of green and white. "How much?" Esmé shrugged her shoulders. "It would have gone so well with her new gown." She bought a tiny brooch of enamel and went out. It was dull at lunch at the Café de la Paix. She did not go back for it. It was stupid to eat alone; the omelette tasted leathery; the little fillets tough; the place was overheated; she would have taken off her coat, but the dress underneath was last year's, therefore a thing to be hidden. Men stared at the beautiful English woman in her daring green hat and gorgeous furs. Sipping her liqueur, Esmé tried to lose her irritation in dreams of the future. Bertie would be home; they would take up their old happy life; but even more happily. She would be so well off now. Able to buy her own frocks, to help in many ways. When she got back she would go off to hunt somewhere. Esmé looked at her hands; they were so much thinner. Would she be strong enough to hunt? She had lost her rounded contours; she knew that there were new lines on her fair skin, that she had lost some of her youth. These things age one. And yet--"L'addition," she said sharply. Yet she thought of a little soft thing lying in the big upstairs room at the Bristol, and something hurt her sharply again. She was tired of shopping, she would go back there now. It was lonely in Paris. Mrs Stanson, writing letters to engage a variety of nursemaids--she considered a person of her position must be thoroughly waited on--was surprised by a visit from Esmé. The baby was splendid after all his trials and his journey. Mrs Stanson did not hold with infants travelling; she dreaded the cold journey back to England.