"Ready, Esmé? You want a taxi back. Very well." Carteret went to the door. Before he had gone away Esmé had been quite content to take the motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or to go by tube. He sighed a little as he feed the gigantic person who hailed the cab for him. "They've either come into some money, my love, or it is the Italian Prince whom Dollie Cavendish hints at," said Luke Holbrook, thoughtfully. "What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esmé as they sped down Piccadilly. "What clothes, Bertie. I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon." "They were very good to me out there," he said quickly. "And ... I did not notice Miss Reynolds's dowdiness." "No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who goes with dowdiness. All flat hair and plaintive eyes." Esmé laughed. "Is she the good housekeeper who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?" He looked out without answering. Something was coming between him and his wife. A rift, opening slowly in the groundwork of their love and happiness. She had changed. Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. Esmé looked for a house, fretting because she could not find one they could afford. Esmé often fretted as cold March was pushed away by April. She was restless, never quiet, unable to spend an hour at home by herself. Everything seemed to cost more than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses which she had counted. She was not paid for at theatres, nor sent flowers and fruit. "The Carterets must have come into money," people said carelessly. "Esmé's simply gorgeously clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of course he's heir to old Hugh's place now." More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds in their parties. She came, enjoying everything almost childishly; never tired of looking at the London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging on every word at theatres, openly delighted with the dishes at smart restaurants. "Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. "They pay and pay and pay all round us." They were lunching at Jules, and Esmé had carelessly ordered one or two things out of season. Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the folded bill. "You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," Esmé laughed. She neither liked nor disliked the quiet girl, even found her useful now to do forgotten errands at the shops, to write her letters for her while Esmé lounged back smoking, to go off in the rain for a book which must be read immediately. For, wanting anything, Esmé could never wait. She snapped at her share of life, to fling it away barely tasted. Estelle came oftener and oftener to the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets for dinner, had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. She was always useful, always willing to help. "Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd lunch at home." "Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esmé, taking asparagus.