There were only taxis in the world for her now, or motors. The little electric carriages were so cheap to hire. Esmé's bill at the nearest garage was running up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for a taxi in the evenings; this was ready and took one on to supper or ball, and back again, and cost very little more," she would say. Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the sunshine, looking down at the packed streets, as the 'bus slipped through the traffic--past Grosvenor Gate, on to the London which is not London to Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the vast grounds of the Exhibition, to play as children might have played. To rock on switchbacks, taking the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and dips; to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on mats round perilous curves; to go and laugh at themselves in ridiculous mirrors. And then with an aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint buildings of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead master of the drama. Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, talk of those which she had seen. "He had one fault," she said. "His good women were mawkish fools; his villainesses splendidly lovable. It was the spirit of the age, no doubt, that to be good one must be a mere loving nonentity, that brains led the feminine world to destruction." If the world would but hang out warnings to the blind mortals who scurry through its maze, seeking for openings, or shouting, laughing, as they go; if we knew that an hour hence our life's history would change, and that a refusal to go to lunch, a turning up one corner instead of another, would leave it as it was, would it be better for us? If Bertie Carteret, talking eagerly, almost boyishly, with a new interest in words, had realized that the turnstile of the Exhibition was taking him into a land of pain and regret, would he have seen the warning, laughed, or turned back? He had passed through it now; his feet were set on the path. They drank tea out of blue-and-white Japanese cups, with sight-seers all round them. Esmé would have shuddered at the place, absolutely refused to take tea with milk in it, and with such impossible people about her. Estelle enjoyed it; the day was still theirs as they dined at the same little restaurant with the same waiter, his memory sharpened by Bertie's surreptitiously large tip, rushing to find a table for them. Weariness made economy less rigid; the little dinner they picked out was simple, but not for poor people. Since men in morning coats may not appear in respectably expensive seats, they climbed high at a theatre, looking down at the stage far below them; the brilliant mass of colour in the stalls; the rows of perfectly-dressed women's heads; of men's--sleek and generally thin of hair. Parties strolled into boxes, late for half an act, carelessly looking at the play on the stage. "There's Esmé! See!"