"The Holbrooks are sending their small car for me to do my shopping in; aren't they kind, Bert? Lady Sue sent us a big basket of fruit yesterday for my little dinner. We've such heaps to do, Bertie, to-day--such heaps!" She would stretch her warm limbs in the luxurious joy of being alive, the joy of youth and strength and happiness. There were no kisses in the morning. Marie had already laved Madame's face in scented water, and rubbed in Madame's face cream to prepare her skin for its light dust of powder. Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of the future, say they could not always live in the army. "There are such dear little places to be found, Es"--he used to study advertisements--"just big enough. We could keep a horse or two, a garden--be so happy!" "And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge with the parson and his wife, and go to summer tennis-parties with two men and forty maids. London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor people. The country is all very well if you need never stay there, but to grow rooted to garden soil! Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and inspect armies." Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the country; he got used to the careless, ever-moving life. And now he sickened of it. If women were flowers, this woman standing near him was a violet, a simple thing, only beautiful to those who love sweetness better than flaring beauty. "You're worried," she said. "Where is Esmé?" "Esmé is out for the day," he said. "Then you've often promised me an outing. Come and be a cheap tripper with me; let it be my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. I'm rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy ourselves. You mustn't sit there brooding." Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the gentle face. He would, but he must pay half. The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as two children. They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White City, see how economy can be practised. They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain Street, studying the menu with puckered brows, taking omelette and a grill which they could share, and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine. The amount of a bill which would not have covered tips at the Berkeley or the Ritz was gaily paid. Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the childish power of enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the top of a motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly. Esmé, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened to look up at the packed mass of humanity seated on the monster's head. "Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the South African girl. Bertie happily saving his pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny." She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a 'bus with him.