"He goes everywhere. He's running a horse," said Mrs Holbrook. "That long-legged bay thing we saw galloping to-day. People say it will win. He goes everywhere, Luke." "So much the worse," said Mr Holbrook, "for everywhere." Something had happened to the motor Esmé was going out in--a tyre had punctured as it was starting and the chauffeur gave warning of an hour's delay. Esmé yawned, waiting in the over-heated hall. Bertie would be home in a week; she would want more wine at cost price from her host. Seeing him come out she flashed a friendly smile at him. She asked him to send her some. But Luke Holbrook, who had been glad to help a pretty girl in a tiny flat, saw no reason for losing a profit to a woman in magnificent sables. "Want more hock?" he said. "The same as last, eh? Yes, I told you to ask me--but it's gone up--gone up, and whisky too, and port.... I'll send it on to you. Kind of me. It's my business, pretty lady, my business. No bother at all." Esmé did not realize that he meant to charge her full price. "We've had such a hunt, we came back early." Sybil Chauntsey ran into the hall in her habit, young Knox close behind her. Mrs Holbrook approved of love. She had asked them together. "Oh, such a run," babbled Sybil. "And my chestnut was glorious, the dear." "Jimmie always said that the chestnut was his best horse." Mousie Cavendish's thin lips curved in a spiteful smile. Young Knox started, looked at Sybil. "I thought it was your own horse," he said gravely. "Captain Gore Helmsley lent him to me for the season. I call him mine. I thought that you knew." "No, I did not." The young soldier seemed to have forgotten his gallop; he looked tired and put out. "The car, madam, is ready." A butler who bore the mark of experience stamped upon his impassive face came forward. Esmé fastened her coat, asked for a companion--Mrs Cavendish would come. Her spiteful tongue made light strokes at reputations as the car hummed along. No one escaped. No one was immune. She had come to drive to find out who had given Esmé the coat, for the fair girl had never made herself auspicious. "Met heaps of nice things abroad, I s'pose.... Why didn't you order a limousine, Esmé? I hate the wind in these open things ... heaps of princes, I suppose, and rich potentates, didn't you, in your travels?" "Heaps," said Esmé. "At least we must have seen them sometimes." "Funniest thing rushing off like that for all these months, so unlike Denise Blakeney. It didn't agree with you, Esmé; it made you thin, and different somehow." "The climate," Esmé said, flushing a little. "And fancy Denise not coming home for the event, trusting herself to foreign doctors and nurses." "She did not intend to stay," Esmé answered. "She meant to be back." "I saw the son and heir. A great fat thing, fair like Cyril. Well, it settles all the difficulties then. Denise doesn't play the _rôle_ of devoted mother; she says the baby bores her."