Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, "but I am not High Church enough to please him. Yes, there is the curate. I am far too ordinary and stupid for Esmé's friends to look at me, and I meet no others. My marriage must be deferred until we take up the house in Northamptonshire, and then some country squire will suit me and not notice my last year's frocks." "Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid young tailor's blocks, always going on. You don't notice them." "Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr Turner told me three hands which he had played at bridge the night before, and had crushin' luck in them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. How is Esmé?" "Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest evening gown was not a success. She is weighed down between the choice of pure white or pure black for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, and the new cook's soufflets are weary things, given to sitting down. Also her ices melt; and she cannot _sauté_ potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't it? Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies and help to make hay. This day is taken up by a luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, dinner at the Holbrooks', an evening party. I have struck at two dances, as I have to get up early." Esmé had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over this new gown of golden soft chiffon and silk. It dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame Claire inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but my Lady Blakeney was choosing six--two models, two copies, two emanating from Madame Jane Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her country's desire for buttons and for trimmings. But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, wraps to match; it meant items of real lace. How then to spare sorrow because one golden yellow evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been too hurriedly finished. "Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. Can she not spare me five minutes?" Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with an order, the forewoman was also engaged. A slender young woman in black satin glided back with the message. Would Madame call again later, make an appointment? Had Madame seen one of the latest scarves? Quite charming, only five guineas. Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of chiffon. "No! Madame did not want a scarf." Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains hiding in Madame's sanctum. Esmé felt hurt, sore. It was always Denise--always Denise. She, Esmé, was no one. She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one of the long glasses; she grew flushed, angry. "I have not time to call again. Please tell Madame that the evening gown is impossible, a strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of Lucille's--which at least fits." Esmé flounced out, wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued _salon_ from her tightly-shod feet. Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the message.