The Oyster Part 7

"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women hurried to escape their thoughts Gore Helmsley thought he could guess at the meaning.

"I feel lost to-day." Esme was glad to find a friend to speak to.

"Poor, an outcast amid the wealth of London."

"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as though the world denied her nothing."

"A week ago she would have said so. To-day--" Esme frowned.

The dark man used his own dictionary. He had grown to admire this dazzling woman. Discontent on married lips generally meant the fruit grew weary of its tree and would come lightly to the hand stretched to pick it.

"Lunch with me," he said. "I can break a dull engagement. To-morrow we shall endeavour to a.s.sail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the Ritz."

Esme had promised to meet Bertie at his club; the club was dull; she wanted to play at being rich to-day, to look enviously at the people who spent money.

"The Ritz," she said. "If you'll tempt me with quails and asparagus.

And if you can get a table."

Jimmie was not given to extravagance, but this was worth it.

They strolled across seething Piccadilly, with its riot of noise and traffic; they went into the big hotel.

An ordered luncheon takes time. They sat in the hall waiting, watching the tide of wealth sweep in. The gla.s.s doors swung and flashed as motors and taxis brought the luncheon-goers to their destination.

Jimmie knew everyone.

"Coraline de Vine." He nodded at the girl whom Esme had seen buying.

"And Trent. He says he does not know what his income is. People say he may marry her--he's infatuated. Did you see her new car? It cost two thousand. I saw him buying it for her. That emerald she's wearing is the celebrated Cenci stone. He got it at Christie's for her last week--outbid everyone."

Thousands--thousands. Esme's eyes glittered hungrily. She opened her pretty mouth as if she were thirsty for all this gold, as if she would bathe herself in it, drink it if she could.

"And see Lord Ellis and the bride. She was no one--his parson's daughter. She has probably spent more on that frock than papa has for half a year's income."

A big, rather cunning-looking girl, healthy and young.

"Mamma wanted to send the two children up to me this week," she said, as she paused near Esme. "I said it was absurd, in the season. They can slip up in July before we shut up the house. Doris wants to see a dentist, mamma says; they _are_ so expensive up here. I have discouraged her; the man at home is much cheaper."

Already anxious to keep her prize money to herself. Not to share it with her sisters. Later, when they grew up, she would give them a chance, not now. Already a _grande dame_, spending only where it pleased her.

Wealth everywhere, and with Esme this new discontent.

The table next to theirs was half smothered in orchids. The American millionaire was giving a luncheon party. A d.u.c.h.ess honoured him, a slender, dark little lady, shrugging mental shoulders at the ostentation. Lady Lila Gore, heavily beautiful, was one of the party.

The sallow master of millions devoured her with his shrewd, sunken eyes. This splendid pink-and-white piece of true English beauty made his own thin, vivacious wife nothing to him.

He had bought Mrs Markly a rope of pearls that she might s.h.i.+ne at the Court, but he was prepared to pay ten times their price for a smile from the big blonde Englishwoman, who knew it, and considered the question.

The quails were tasteless to Esme. She could not eat. The fear returned as she felt a distaste for her food, as she refused the ice which she had specially ordered.

She grew restless, tired of Jimmie Helmsley's caressing manner, of the undercurrent of meaning in his voice.

"I shall see you to-morrow at Luke's," he said. "You are looking pale, fair lady. What is it? Can I help? You know I'd do anything for you."

"I've not been well," she said irritably. "We're so far out. The flat's so poky and stuffy. Oh! I shall be all right in a day or two."

She would be. Hope spread his wings again.

She telephoned to Bertie and met him for tea.

For a few hours she was content again. The flat looked its prettiest.

Her flowers were lovely. Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; their fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the vases.

Esme tried to love it all, to realize that in her way she wanted nothing. She had been so happy with Bertie in their careless life.

She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the flat. She laughed as he did accounts.

"b.u.t.terfly, we spend every penny we have got, and a little more besides." He looked up into her radiant face. "We seem--we seem to buy a lot of things, Es."

"Not half as many things as we ought to." She put her cheek to his. "We want _all_ new chair coverings, Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned."

"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely.

"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have to have got the hat in any case, you see. And if I do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?"

With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, with her soft cheek against his own, could he say or think so? He was losing time up there, rusting when he ought to have been with his regiment, all for Esme's sake, because she loved London. But if it made her happy it was enough.

He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how everyone loved her; poured out the flattery she was never tired of.

"We can't do anything for these people; they are content to see you.

Your face is repayment," he said. "No one would bother about me without you, sweetheart. You were born for society."

"Yes." Esme's voice grew strained. If Fate had sent her Arthur Ellis and his coal mines! How she would have loved to act hostess in the big town house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put the thought away, almost angrily, for she loved Bertie.

Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips on hers, she missed something. Was she growing older that kisses failed to thrill?

"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I have not been well all day."

Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a moment she was querulous, irritable, all the evening's happiness gone again.

It was time to dress. People were coming to dine; there would be new salad; iced rice cunningly flavoured. But the thought of food made Esme wretched.

"I _want_ to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost whimpered to her gla.s.s.

Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose nothing.

"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the impossible things as I did to-day," she said aloud, with the idea--too common with humanity--that one may strike a bargain with Fate.