Bertie walked back--a long walk along quiet streets with great London brooding in her silent might. Sometimes he passed a house lighted up, red carpeting on its steps, rows of carriages and motors waiting; women in rich cloaks coming out, their faces weary behind their smiles. Sometimes strange birds of the night flitted past. Other women, painted, weary as their rich sisters behind their set smile of invitation, going home alone, abandoning search for foolish prey. Men, evil-faced, furtive, glanced at him, standing to watch if the "toff" would turn into some unfrequented narrow street. Gleams of white shirt front as men of his class strolled to their rooms or lodging, their black cloaks flapping back to show the evening dress underneath. A few tipsy, foolish boys, lurching along looking for trouble. The big clubs were still lighted, their warm wealth behind their great windows. On to "down at Kensington," to the great pile of the flats towering to the soft blue sky. A little electric carriage rolled noiselessly past him. Esmé got out. A man's voice said "Good-bye." It was one of the soldiers whom he had seen in the box. He heard some words of parting, then Esmé's careless, heart-whole laugh. They were on the second floor; he heard her exclaim as she saw the lights all up: "How careless of someone." She was brilliantly dressed; something of black and silver, clinging, graceful, billowing out round her feet; there were diamonds in her fair hair, a new necklace on her soft white throat. She shivered a little, turning on the fire, filling herself a glass of brandy from the decanter, pouring in a little Perrier. "I was the careless one, Esmé. I forgot them." "But you have only just come in," she said. "I was in and went out again. You look tired, Esmé." The morning light, stealing in through the drawn curtains, was blue and searching. It showed the powder on her cheeks, the line of the deftly-applied carnation bloom; it made her a little haggard, older than her twenty-five years. "Yes, I'm tired," she yawned. "I thought you would be asleep." She lighted a strong cigarette. "I'm tired. We had supper at the Ritz and went on to Sue's ball. She had a new necklace, a beauty! She's just got an electric landaulette. Heigho! I'm tired of being poor--of pinching." "You came home in an electric landaulette, Butterfly," Bertie smiled at her, but it was a mirthless smile. "Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out ill-humouredly. "I can't hunt for taxis. I--" she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a year for small things, pocket-money; she must make him think she saved out of that. "And new diamonds." He touched the necklace glittering on the soft white flesh. "Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost ten pounds. I had nothing decent to wear." Until one took up the necklace one could not guess--see the solid backing. It was a brilliant thing; the workmanship perfect; but it had cost five times ten pounds.