Esmé walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esmé to think of working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks--a thin and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself irresistible. "Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady." Esmé was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs. She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes. Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear. Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let him see more of her. Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, _empresse_, showing how ready he was to love, to be a devoted friend. Over champagne and sandwiches Esmé babbled a little, told of her loss, of how hard up she was. With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it a pleasure to make life easy for them if--there was friendship, real friendship, between good pals. The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits suddenly sharpened, Esmé looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to caress her she could be free of debt and care--for a time. Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next year it would have to be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free. The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing her soul as she remembered. Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esmé wanted. She saw too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but not this second one of her self-respect. She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming of Mr Beerhaven to look after her; she was feeling so much better now. "But," he stood in front of her in her corner; she could see the eager look on his face. "But--she must let him go on taking care of her. Wouldn't she dine with him to-night? Do a theatre--have supper afterwards?" Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esmé smiled. Unfortunately she was engaged, all day, every day this week. But would he lunch on Sunday? They were having a little party at the Ritz. He would meet her husband.