Claire received them dubiously, then thawed to the order for the bazaar. If Mrs Gresham could get her the carnation order also, Lady Louisa's stall, and the roses. Forget-me-nots, by the way, were spring flowers. Oh, it didn't matter. Clouds of gauze, blue satin, wreaths of flowers stiffened with turquoises, shoes, stockings. Dollie ordered lavishly. "That Estelle girl shall help," Esmé said. "She is the kind of person who'll open boxes and get dusty and save us trouble. By the way, what shall we sell? Not tea. One has to run about. Sweets, I should think, and buttonholes." "We are not distinguished enough for buttonholes," said Dollie, decidedly. "When Adolfus or Gargie buys a white pink for five shillings he likes to tell mamma and his lady friend that the Countess of 'Ighlife pinned it in with her own fingers, Vilet, her very own. Dolfus does not seem to realize that the use of other people's would be confusing. No, let it be sweets. Chocolates will show off our blue frocks." Bertie Carteret found himself left more and more alone. Esmé was always feverishly busy, always just going on somewhere, chasing pleasure, growing thinner in the pursuit, using just a little more rose bloom, a little extra powder to hide jaded lines and fading colour. At the end of May Bertie paid his household bills again and knew that they were far too large. No extravagance seemed to have been curtailed; if they had not lunched or dined so often at home, he had paid for a score of meals at fashionable restaurants. Esmé's careless demands for a few pounds for cabs were endless. "I can't do it," he muttered, writing his cheques. "I can't get on." A plea to Esmé would only make her sullen, irritable, railing at her poverty, muttering against poor marriages. "I--oh, you are alone. I've brought the book which Esmé asked me for." Estelle Reynolds came on Bertie as he sighed over his bills. "And the pearls she left to be mended." She put down a new novel on the table, one barred by libraries. Esmé would look at it, probably forget to finish it, unless she thought she found any of her friends were pilloried between the flaring green covers. Estelle put down a receipt with the pearls, one for two pounds. Bertie looked at the amount. "Has Esmé paid you?" he asked. "Oh, no, it does not matter--any time." Estelle blushed. "I can ask her." "I wonder"--he turned--"how much she has let you pay, this careless wife of mine. For the future, Estelle, bring anything to me." "You seem to have enough to pay for." Estelle pointed to a pile of books and cheques.