Indulgence made Esmé penitent, almost grateful. That was right. Now Bertie was a dear, a sweet old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, just as last year's had been. She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face pressed against his, the perfume of her golden hair in his nostrils. But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple body in his arms, Bertie Carteret did not hold her closer; she missed his quick sigh at her contact, the hotness of his kisses on her neck. "Bertie, dear old Bert." But as she moved her face a little he could see between him and the light the skilfully-applied red on her cheeks, the coating of powder round it. It was not love for him which brought her to him, but selfish relief at being released from worry. "Poor Butterfly," he said, kissing her gently. "It shall flutter through its summer. But spent capital means less income, Esmé, remember that." "Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, looking at it. Esmé ran her finger down the items, there were no wholesale prices now. The hock was at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, she railed at Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and mean and treacherous. Swore that if she could help it he would not get his peerage. "The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall maid, coming in with a bundle of flowers. "Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle them for me, she is coming to lunch. And your Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten." "You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said Carteret; "after all, they wither just as soon." "I _cannot_ skimp over flowers, Bert, I cannot." Esmé went off to dress. "What could she skimp over?" Bertie wondered. Estelle Reynolds came in quietly, smiled good morning, began quite naturally to get the vases ready. "How glorious they are," she said, as she put the long-stemmed forced carnations into slender silver vases. "They must cost a fortune now." "They do." Bertie was writing to his broker. "They do, Estelle. Everything costs a fortune here just now. But we must come to the humble sweet peas next week, or something of its class. What a housekeeper you would make, Estelle." "Would I?" She hid the pain in her soft grey eyes, turned suddenly away. One of the foolish women whose joy lies in sacrifice, who find stupid satisfaction in balanced accounts, in saving for the man who works for them, who in some mysterious way stretches the weekly allowance when the children come, and finds only happiness in the giving up to do it. A homely little brown thrush, looking, wondering at a world of gay-plumaged songless birds. "I." Estelle's eyes were under her control again. She smiled bravely. "I am one of the dowdy people who like to mess in the kitchen and dust, value a pleasure for what it costs ... it's childish."