Esmé came into one of the larger boxes with Dollie Gresham, Jimmie Gore Helmsley; a couple of soldiers; and then at the last, pretty Sybil Chauntsey, gesticulating as she ran in, everyone laughing at something she said. "I wish"--Bertie looked gravely at the group--"that Sybil Chauntsey would keep away from that Helmsley man. He's no child's guide." It was Jimmie's party. He had telephoned to Esmé to chaperone it. They were supping at the Ritz afterwards. Little Sybil had been engaged; she had run in telling them of her many difficulties before she could get away. At a small dance to-night one man would look for a partner who would never come. Estelle was tired when the theatre was over; it was hot up there above the dress circle. She pointed to her morning dress and refused supper. "We'll have some at home then. Esmé may be back. The economy must end at twelve. I'll drive you home in a taxi." They came to the flat to find it silent, shut up. Esmé was not coming home until three or four. A few sandwiches stood ready for her, but Bertie would have none of them. He could cook; there were chafing dishes downstairs. Together they raided the trim larder, to find nothing but cold beef and eggs and butter. But how they laughed as Bertie scrambled the eggs, and did it skilfully, if he had not put in pepper twice, and Estelle grilled slices of beef in boiling butter, and dusted them with curry powder; then they heated cold potatoes and carried up their hot dishes, with bread and butter and plates. Estelle said she adored pepper, as she burnt her throat with scrambled eggs. Bertie concealed the fact that the beef was corned; the potatoes, hot by the time the eggs and beef were finished, were excellent. Estelle made coffee. They cleared up at last, washing dishes, putting things away, going home together on a cool summer's night in a crawling growler. Esmé's new maid, looking in once, had slipped away unseen. A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two people may enjoy themselves in the vast mother city of the world, away from where the golden shower of wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the fashion of the moment is impossible. As they said good-bye on the doorstep--Estelle had her key--Bertie held her cool, slender hands in his; asked her if she would spend a day out of London with him. "Down in Devonshire," he said, "at Cliff End. I have to go there soon. We can go early. Your aunt will not mind." "Oh, not with you," said Estelle, simply. "She knows it is all right." He felt a little pang at the words--a pang he could not understand. It was right that she should trust herself with him; he was married and a mere friend; yet the little vexed feeling in his heart was the warning held up by the gods.