The eager look changed to one of sulky indecision. Angy Beerhaven was not sure if he could. If she'd have tea with him to-morrow he'd tell her. Esmé promised to lightly; went away leaving the boy frowning. "Is she one of your real stand-offs, or just wants to put a value on herself?" he muttered. "Bah! It's too much trouble if she does--pretty as she is." Clutching the rest of her money, Esmé strolled about aimlessly; she gave up two engagements, would not go to her club because she was too restless to talk to her friends. Turned in at last to a tea-shop, where brown curtains made little alcoves, and thick blinds shaded the light. There were three or four tiny rooms, one opening from the other; the first where the decorous matron might sit and drink tea and eat muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were separated by portières of Indian beads, rattling as one passed through. Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esmé went to the second room, sat down in a dim corner just by the door into the last, and ordered tea. It made her head clearer; she smoked, thinking deeply. Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was a mere cupboard, kept in semi-darkness. She listened at length, listened with a start. "Is it safe here by the door?" The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore Helmsley's voice. "Only a few people get away. It's early yet. Look here, Syl, meet me at Brighton on Sunday. Do! We'll have a lovely day. I'll have a cousin--she lives there--to do propriety. Make some excuse and get off. We never have a day together." "But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey faltered. "No one will. No one we know goes to Brighton on Sundays, and if they do we are just taking a stroll. Do, Sybil! I deserve something. I--I wasn't hard-hearted over those bridge debts now, was I?" Poor Sybil, with her hand pressed to her throat. She owed this man two hundred pounds now. If he went to her people she would be sent home in disgrace. "No," she whispered. "No." "We'll wipe 'em out for ever if you'll be a good child and have a simple spree. I'll give you back your I.O.U., your letters." Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written two foolish, girlishly gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again. "I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come." Esmé listened, but heard no more. Moving silently she slipped away to the blind-shaded window and got there just as the two came out. Her back was to them, her head hidden in a hastily-snatched-up newspaper. They did not notice her. Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to each their lines and part. Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play her part without rehearsal. "The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the sapphires and diamonds. They'll go with this cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire stars." Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over the safe.