In ten minutes her guests would be there; she would have to talk to them, to laugh and chatter, and not show her uneasiness. Dollie Maynard, fluttering in, a slender, bright-eyed woman, brainless and yet sharp-witted, weighing men and women by what they could give her. Denise Blakeney was coming; they were all going on to Ranelagh. Esmé's flat was not much out of the way. Esmé's little lunches were perfection in their way; there was sure to be some highly-spiced story to be discussed; someone would have transgressed or be about to transgress, someone would already have given London food for gossip. "Esmé, dear! what lovely flowers!" Dollie's quick eyes appraised the roses. "Oh! extravagant Esmé!--or is it Esmé well beloved, with a someone who wastes his income at a florist's." "In this case--my lawful spouse! He sent them in yesterday." Esmé omitted to say that she had asked for them. "You are a model pair, Esmé." Dollie sat down; she was a woman who was never hardly dressed; chiffons, laces seemed necessary to soften her sharp little face. "You've all you want. Oh--Denise!" Denise Blakeney, looking worried--her soft, weak face was drawn a little. Dollie was fluttering softness; Denise Blakeney solid wealth; the pearls on her throat were worth a fortune; the diamonds pinned about her dress splendid in their flashing purity. Dollie detested Esmé because she did so much on half the Maynards' income; she envied Denise deeply. "It's a mystery how the Carterets manage," Dollie would whisper. "A mystery--unless--" and then came the whisper which kills reputation, the hint which sets the world talking, in this case generally put aside with an "Oh! they've enough, those two, and people are very good to her--she's so pretty." Another time Esmé would have been proud of her luncheon; the soles in cunning sauce; the soufflet of peas; the cutlets; the savoury--Esmé prided herself on original savouries. There was hock which was owed to bright smiles to a Society wine merchant, who sent it to her at cost price. On other days Esmé would have smiled to herself at Dollie Maynard's peevish envy, at the praise veiled by pricks of innuendo. "Esmé dear, you might be a millionaire. How delicious this hock is. Holbrook keeps it, but it's beyond poor little me; he told me the price. But to you perhaps he relents." Coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes; then Dollie fluttered away, called for by friends. "Shall we go?"--Denise Blakeney strolled to the window--"or shall I send the car away? Esmé, I'm in bad spirits; it's raining, too!" "And I am in bad spirits." Esmé looked pinched, almost unhealthy. "Yes, tell her to come back, Denise--let's talk." Speech is the safety valve of sorrow; a trouble which can be spoken of will not hurt gravely. It did Esmé good to fling out her fears--to tell of what might--what would be.