The Oyster. Peer

up the soft fur. "Oh! you, Esmé! See, shall I have it? These things are always useful."

      Esmé stroked the supple softness of the furs, held the wrap longingly.

      "Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle—seventy guineas."

      "Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you bargain-hunting, Es?"

      "No—I have no money." Esmé looked almost sullenly at the stole which Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat."

      "What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so lovely yesterday, dear."

      Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately.

      "Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's sea, where you people swim. Yes—we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye."

      Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures there.

      Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them.

      Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations.

      "Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had just bought them for his table that evening."

      So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl.

      "Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things."

      Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real lace.

      The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with his cruel claws, rending her, hurting her mentally.

      She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could not content her.

      Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning.

      And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she grumbled at might—would—pass to something smaller. To a house in a cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the child she dreaded.

      Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour high as she raced on.

      "Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esmé cannoned into Gore Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively.

      A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high colour constituted good looks. Women admired him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently.

      "Neither. I was running away from my own thoughts."

      "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." Esmé 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—" Esmé 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 assail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the Ritz."

      Esmé 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 glass 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 Esmé 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. Esmé'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 Esmé. "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 Esmé this new discontent.

      The table next to theirs was half smothered in orchids. The American millionaire was giving a luncheon party. A duchess 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 shine 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 Esmé. 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