The Oyster. Peer

companion, provided she got her own way. Down in the country, without amusement, she would have fretted, beaten against bars of dulness.

      "Oh, Mrs Carteret!" she heard Jimmie exclaim as the amber liquid vanished, as the broken glass tinkled together on the cloth. "What dream moved you?" he whispered, bending close. "What, lady fair?"

      A man who could throw meaning into his lightest word, here it was implied, had she thought of hidden things; the eyes burning into hers expressed that she had thought of him. Though every road in the map of love was known to Jimmie Gore Helmsley, he hinted at unknown turns, at heights unclimbed to each fresh companion he took by the route, knowing how women love mystery and hate the flat, soft paths they can see too well.

      "Of what?" he whispered. "If I dared to think. It would make Friday—"

      "Don't dare," Esmé flashed at him mockingly. "And Friday—where do we lunch on Friday?" she asked carelessly. "Let it be near Dover Street; I must be at the club at half-past two."

      Esmé looked shrewdly at the man, wondered what women saw in the sloe-black eyes, the high-coloured cheeks; wondered why girls had made fools of themselves for him.

      "I heard of an old friend of yours to-day," she said—"Gracie Stukeley—I forget her married name."

      Jimmie nodded carelessly; there were no chinks in his armour. He gave no thought to a little fool who had come flying to his rooms because someone vexed her, who prattled to him of divorce; he was rather fond, in a way, of his big, swearing, hard-riding wife. He remembered that Grace Stukeley had to be married off to save her people's name.

      "Nice girl," he said carelessly; "but a fool."

      "Ah, Denise! You did not lunch with Eva? She put you off an hour ago; I see."

      Big Cyril paused as he passed his wife. Denise made sweetly-drawled apology to Aunt Grace.

      "I see," said Sir Cyril, his big face set a little grimly; "and now, whither away, Denise? To drive—to the cloth show? Well—we meet at dinner."

      "Yes—to drive;" but first Denise knew that she had meant to go home to spend an hour with Jerry in her boudoir. And now she was afraid; she faltered and flushed. Would not Aunt Grace drive? Esmé could come any day.

      Aunt Grace, easily flattered, gravely believing the previous engagement, accepted willingly.

      She quite understood how difficult it was to find time to receive visitors from the country. Engagements were sacred. The vicar had never forgiven her once because she forgot to go to tea to meet the bishop's wife, and the hot buns were overcooked waiting for her. Mrs Lemon made a speciality of hot buns. Grace Bullingham chattered on, delighted with her luncheon, her day in London; but Sir Cyril stood silent, a curious smile on his lips.

      "You're coming, Cyrrie? Denise, isn't Cyrrie coming?"

      "The electric limousine of the moment has only room for two—and an interloper," said Blakeney. "No, I'm not coming, Aunt Grace. I should be the interloper. But I'll meet you at four at the station, the car can take you there, and—"

      Denise was still flustered; still talking nervously. She arranged to meet Esmé again; she fussed uneasily, afraid that Jerry might be openly impressive, that he might try to whisper his regret.

      "Now, auntie, come along. Au revoir, Esmé. Good-bye, Lord Gerald. See you some time next week—to luncheon on Sunday if there's no other attraction."

      Something fell with a little clatter on the pavement. Sir Cyril stooped and picked it up.

      "You've dropped this," he said to his wife.

      It was a pear-shaped pink pearl set with tiny diamonds, a valuable toy.

      Denise took it from him, hesitating.

      "A pretty thing," said Blakeney, quietly. "Be more careful of it, Denise."

      "Sit and smoke a cigarette with me," Esmé heard Gore Helmsley's caressing voice close to her, "in my club. And look here—I've a lovely scheme—listen!"

      The scheme was unrolled simply. As Carteret would be away, Esmé must come to Leicestershire for a few days in the winter. He had a lodge there; she could get another girl to come.

      "I'll lend you horses," said Jimmie. "You'd sell them for me with your riding. Brutally frank, ain't I, but you know I must keep going. Come for a month."

      Another month's hunting after Christmas; the fun of staying with three men. Four or five days a week on perfect mounts. Bridge in the evenings; the planning of tea-gowns, the airing of new habits.

      She was not afraid of Jimmie, or of any man. Esmé did not know the lower depths Gore Helmsley was capable of in hours when he mixed with the underworld—the great stream which glides beneath London's surface.

      "I'd love to," Esmé began.

      And then again the sudden fear. May—this was May. In January there might be no hunting, no enjoyment, nothing but a weary waiting for what must be.

      "I'll come," she said gaily; "I must have my hunting. Oh! I must!"

      Gore Helmsley smiled softly. "And—drop a hint to Denise Blakeney to go slow," he said. "Those big men think a lot."

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      May made her brilliant, treacherous way across her allotted span of days. A thing of sunshine, a lady of bitter winds, she laid her finger on London's pulse and felt it throb to life beneath her touch. She saw the golden sacrifices made to the gods of the season; money poured out as water in the huge city; money spent everywhere; in the crowded shops; in stately salons, where the great dressmakers created their models; on cabs and motors; on fruit and flowers and vegetables out of season—since it is ordained that when the gifts of the earth come to their ordinary time your entertainer has no use for them.

      Strawberries in June are mere berries of no worth; asparagus in May becomes a comrade to cabbage. It is only that which costs much money which is of value in the eyes of the rich.

      Hundreds of pounds on roses to decorate walls for one night; odd hundreds on a gown which will never be worn twice; the clerks, the poor, look on without envy, merely with admiration, with a glow perhaps of pride for the great country which can pour out gold as water.

      Esmé Carteret, in a soft muslin gown, sat in her pretty drawing-room; sat for a moment, jumped up restlessly, trying to escape her thoughts.

      Suspicion had become certainty; there was no escape save through folly or worse; her easy happiness was at an end.

      "Vilette has 'phoned, madame. She wishes to know if you will have your gown for Cup day quite tight, with a soft chiffon coat, she says."

      "I'll think of it, Marie. No, tell her not to; make it loose, soft."

      Marie coughed discreetly. Marie guessed—or knew.

      Esmé reddened, tore at a pink carnation, pulling its fragrant petals to pieces.

      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