Читать книгу The Oyster - Peer - Страница 4

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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 at a florist's."

"In this case—my lawful spouse! He sent them in yesterday." Esmé omitted to say that she had asked for them.

"You are a model pair, Esmé." Dollie sat down; she was a woman who was never hardly dressed; chiffons, laces seemed necessary to soften her sharp little face. "You've all you want. Oh—Denise!"

Denise Blakeney, looking worried—her soft, weak face was drawn a little. Dollie was fluttering softness; Denise Blakeney solid wealth; the pearls on her throat were worth a fortune; the diamonds pinned about her dress splendid in their flashing purity.

Dollie detested Esmé because she did so much on half the Maynards' income; she envied Denise deeply.

"It's a mystery how the Carterets manage," Dollie would whisper. "A mystery—unless—" and then came the whisper which kills reputation, the hint which sets the world talking, in this case generally put aside with an "Oh! they've enough, those two, and people are very good to her—she's so pretty."

Another time Esmé would have been proud of her luncheon; the soles in cunning sauce; the soufflet of peas; the cutlets; the savoury—Esmé prided herself on original savouries. There was hock which was owed to bright smiles to a Society wine merchant, who sent it to her at cost price.

On other days Esmé would have smiled to herself at Dollie Maynard's peevish envy, at the praise veiled by pricks of innuendo.

"Esmé dear, you might be a millionaire. How delicious this hock is. Holbrook keeps it, but it's beyond poor little me; he told me the price. But to you perhaps he relents."

Coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes; then Dollie fluttered away, called for by friends.

"Shall we go?"—Denise Blakeney strolled to the window—"or shall I send the car away? Esmé, I'm in bad spirits; it's raining, too!"

"And I am in bad spirits." Esmé looked pinched, almost unhealthy. "Yes, tell her to come back, Denise—let's talk."

Speech is the safety valve of sorrow; a trouble which can be spoken of will not hurt gravely. It did Esmé good to fling out her fears—to tell of what might—what would be.

"It will upset everything," she moaned. "Scotland—the winter hunting—and then the expense afterwards. We were just right together, Bertie and I."

Denise listened to the outburst, almost astonished, scarcely comprehending; half wistfully—she had no child; they would not have worried her. Her empty life might have been so different if they had come to her.

"And Bertie," she said, "he hates it, as you do?"

"He would, of course. He doesn't know. He would fuss and sentimentalize. Oh! Denise!" Esmé began to cry hysterically. "It will spoil everything. Something will have to be given up."

Denise looked at her thoughtfully. This sheer selfishness was beyond her comprehension.

"Perhaps when I was thirty," sobbed Esmé, "or thirty-five, and didn't want to fly about."

"And then"—Denise Blakeney lighted another cigarette—"then, my Esmé, you might pray for the child you want—in vain."

She got up, her weak mouth set slackly, her blue eyes shining.

"Es—I'm in mortal fear—fear of Cyril."

Esmé stopped crying to listen.

"He'll divorce me," said Denise, dully. "He's off to Central Africa or somewhere now, but I know he means to, and what troubles you is the one thing which would save me. He told me once that if his wife had children he would never disgrace their mother. He meant it. Cyrrie says very little, and he means it all. He's so quiet, Es, so big. I'm afraid!"

"But surely," Esmé queried, "there's no evidence?"

"Oh! evidence!" Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I've been reckless lately, Es—a fool. I've stayed with those Bellew people near Ascot. I've been a fool with Jerry; he was such a boy that I was too open; being very little harm in it, I judged the opinion of onlookers by my own feelings; and Cyrrie's found out. He knows the mad things I've done. The boy was so proud of being my belonging—bah! I know! I can see Cyrrie look at me with a threat behind his eyes. Think of it, Esmé! The disgrace! Those vile papers reporting; poor Jerry defending; and then the after life. Oh! if one could only see in time. If I had stopped to think two years ago—it may be too late now. I've been absolutely making love to Cyrrie lately, and he looks at me with such a smile on his big face. You see, there's the title—it's as old as the world, almost—and all the money; and we have no heir; that vexes Cyrrie horribly. He'll get rid of me and marry Anne Bellairs, his cousin, a great, healthy, bovine country girl, while I sit in outer darkness and gnash my teeth."

"Oh, Denise! Oh! if we could change—" Esmé's voice rang so shrilly that Lady Blakeney dropped her cigarette and picked it up again from the skirt of her rich white dress.

"Esmé," she said, "it's burnt a hole in it. Heavens! yes! if we could!" She threw away the cigarette. "If we could!"

In her heart she knew she ought to tell Esmé not to be foolishly hysterical. Talk quietly and soothe her. Instead, with her eyes alight, she fed the flame of the fear of loss of fun. Talked of how a baby was a nuisance in London, of how much they cost.

"If you could give me yours," she said, "and pretend that it was mine. Lord! what a difference it would make for me."

Esmé sat staring at her, puzzled.

"Oh! I suppose it's too melodramatic to think of," Denise said, getting up. "It's still pouring, and I'm going home. We have people to dinner to-night. Cheer up, dear."

She left Esmé sitting brooding alone; she had been so happy with her husband; there was just enough—enough for amusement, for entertaining mildly, for paying visits. Her pretty face won many friends; people were kind to so pleasant a guest.

"Oh! I can't afford it! I'd love to go!" and then someone found an outsider at ten to one, or a stock which was safe to rise, and someone else sent wine at wholesale prices; someone else fruit and flowers. They were such a merry pair; they ought to enjoy themselves, was the world's verdict.

Esmé knew the value of smiles; in shops, in Society they were current coinage to her. She did not want to be tied, to have to weary over a something more important than she was.

"If we could only change," said Esmé, dolefully. "Denise quite sees how it will spoil everything."

"Call a taxi, Marie. I'll go to the club to tea."

Denise went to pay some calls, and then to her house in Grosvenor Square. The scent of flowers drifted from the hall; she loved to fill it with anything sweet. The butler handed her her letters as she passed—invitations, notes.

She went into her boudoir at the back of the drawing-room, a nest of blue, background for her fair beauty, with flowers everywhere.

Denise shivered; she was a Someone—a well-known hostess in society; a personage in her way; she went to dull house-parties, where royalty was entertained; and she yawned sorely but yet was glad to go. Where one ate simple food and had to smoke in the conservatories, because a very great lady was an advocate for simplicity.

"And if—if—" her fears were not unfounded.

Denise knew what it would mean. A few loyal friends writing kindly letters before they slipped away from her. Cold, evasive nods from people who would not cut her; the delighted, uplifted noses of the people she had ignored.

A hole-and-corner marriage somewhere with young Jerry, who was already wearying of his chains; a marriage reft of all things which makes marriage a joy. Life in some poky place abroad or in the country, received on sufferance or not at all.

Denise flung out her hands as if to ward off an enemy. She heard her husband coming in; his heavy step on the stairs; his deep, even voice.

"Her ladyship in? Yes? A message from Lord Hugh Landseer; wished Sir Cyril to lunch there to-morrow to discuss guns, etc. Yes. Dinner at eight or half-past? At eight-fifteen? The champagne? Better have two sorts out, Lady St Clare didn't like Bollinger."

There was a cool reserve of strength in Cyril Blakeney's trivial words; he thought slowly, spoke slowly, but seldom idly. He was a man who could wait. Wait for a day which he believed would be good, wait for a young dog which he thought might improve. "Give him a year—we'll see then." And if at the end of the time the setter was still hopeless, he was not seen again. Cyril Blakeney would not sell a dog to be beaten into submission—and the end was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a bad jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute his opinions; if they could not agree they listened to the arguments and wondered at their quiet shrewdness.

Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not come into her boudoir. She went up herself, fidgeting over her dresses, coming down at last in shimmering opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls at her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one pear-shaped and pink. Stanley, her maid, had fastened it in, picking it out of several jewels.

Denise looked at them and shivered again. Her diamonds were magnificent, but they were not hers; they were heirlooms of the Blakeneys; she thought of the old house in Yorkshire, big, heavy, solid as her husband himself; full of carved panels, of cold, stately rooms; a home which Cyril delighted in. She dreaded the keen moorland air, the loneliness of the country; but they spent the winter there hunting and shooting; and she knew how Cyril longed for a boy to come after him.

"That will do, Stanley. What do you say?—That I told you to remind me of new dresses for Stranray Park. Yes. Anything will do for the mornings, and tea-gowns are forbidden; but I'll want six evening gowns. Oh! Cyrrie!"

Catch of nervousness in her voice; she met her husband on the stairs; put out a hand and touched his arm. Quietly he lifted it, held it out, and laid it lightly where her wedding ring gleamed behind a blaze of diamonds.

"Had a pleasant day?" he asked.

Denise recounted it almost eagerly. The big man listened, held her hand still as they came to the drawing-room.

"And you gave up Ranelagh—stayed talking to Esmé Carteret." She saw him smile finely. "Friends, Denise, to waste an afternoon. I was at Ranelagh and missed you. Dollie Maynard told me she left you just starting. I wondered where you were. Oh! here is Elsie."

They were a merry little party of four, taking an evening off until it was time for one or two balls.

Elsie St Clare, her husband, and a Baron de Reville.

Denise was a charming hostess; she knew how to order a dinner; there was no hint of the fluttering wings of trouble as the four talked and laughed.

"Stanley would not let me rest in peace to-night," she said, "she reminded me of Stranray in October. Cyril will not be there; it will be worse than ever. No smoking there after dinner," laughed Denise, "and it all seems standing up and taking the weather's temperature with our tongues; we are so bored we talk of nothing else. And H.R.H. likes the Stranray babies down to breakfast. One of them upset an egg over her one day, on purpose; they are outwardly mild, and inwardly demons. And when we are not out we work, because it looks domestic. I put three stitches in last time, because I saw eyes upon me. I shall never forget the day we found the three babies playing when we came in. Jinnie, the eldest, gravely smoking paper cigarettes. Just as state entry was made, she shrieked out:

"'That's when they're gone to bed; that's what we do. I saw over the bannisters. Now you're so loud, Nettie; and you, Tim, you say thank goodness.' But H.R.H. was quite nice about it; and only laughed and kissed them all.

"'I expect it's what you all do and say,' she said, and kissed Nettie again."

"I shall disport myself at Swords," Elsie St Clare laughed. "I couldn't stand the strain of behaving perfectly for a week. Prince Wilhelm goes to you at White Friars some time, doesn't he?"

"Next spring for the races," said Denise. "But she's a dear, and if you give her a chair to sleep in she bothers no one; the only thing which worries her is that Wilhelm will play the bridge game.

"'It hass my orphanage ruined,' she told me last time."

After dinner they played bridge. Denise forgot her fears a little, though her luck was against her; she could not hold a card.

"How I hate paying you, Cyrrie," she said, laughing, as she took gold from her purse.

"Women always hate the day of reckoning." Something in his quiet voice made her heart thump. "The game is full of excitement, but it must end—and your sex dislikes the ending."

The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys were left alone; they were not going out.

Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, stood looking at her.

"A lovely gown," he said. "But—do you need new jewels, Denise?"

His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink pearl, undid the fastening.

Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking excuse.

"Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the boy give it you. You've been foolish there, Denise—foolish. Well, I'm off for months, and when I come back—"

"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made some sound.

"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a difference—one makes allowances then."

"If we had—now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly.

He laughed. "If we had—you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you look tired out. Go to bed."

"I have not been feeling well," she faltered.

If she was to be saved, something must be managed.

Esmé was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, when Lady Blakeney came to her next day. Came, white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face tense. For half an hour Esmé sat almost silent, listening to an outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, flighty woman developed undreamt-of powers of organization.

Esmé wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often been done before. She flung out its simplicity. Away in some remote part of the Continent the child which was to come should be born as a Blakeney.

What was easier than a change of names?

"See, Esmé—I'll give you a thousand a year always. Honour! Think of it! Five hundred pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can be happy when he comes back. And I—it will save me. We'll go away together in the autumn; we are always together. We'll go without maids. Oh—do—do!"

Esmé flung up her pretty head.

"I'll do it," she said, "but I must have a doctor. I must not die."

"A doctor to attend Lady Blakeney. Why not? Strange servants, a strange place, who would know?" Denise remembered everything.

"Yet it is wonderful how people do know," said Esmé, shrewdly, half afraid now that she had agreed; wondering what might happen. Yet she looked round her flat with a little sigh of relief. She could live her merry, careless life, live it more easily than before, and she did not want a child. She hated children, hated their responsibility.

"Some day," said Esmé, "I won't mind; then there can be another."

May had given way to a dismal June. Cold winds and showers swept over the world. Flowers were dragged from grates and fires put in. Esmé had lighted hers; sat over it, as her husband came in; they were lunching out.

He hung over her, delighting in her soft beauty, crying out at her pale cheeks.

"You're tired, girlie; we're always out. And now that I must leave you alone you'll do much more."

She leant back against him, ruffling her cloud of fair hair.

"We're absolutely happy, aren't we, Bertie? I'll be here when you come. I can let the flat until the spring, and you must leave that stupid army and live here all summer in dear London."

He held her close, sat silent for a time.

"I was at Evie's yesterday," he said. "Eve Gresham's my cousin. I saw her boy."

"Horrid little things at that age," said Esmé, unsympathetically.

"It wasn't—it was fat and bonny; and Eve is so proud of it. If we had a sonny, Butterfly, you and I, I'd like him to be like Eve's."

Esmé sat astonished. Bertie wishing for a third in their lives. Bertie! knowing the difference it would make.

She jumped up, almost angrily. "If we had, we couldn't hunt, or do half what we do," she said. "And you've got me, Bertie. Do you want more?"

She began to cry suddenly, broke down, overwrought by her morning's plot, by this new idea of Carteret's.

Something, stronger for the moment than her selfish love of amusement, fought with her. If she gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he would not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, guarding her. Esmé wavered.

"I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," Bertie said; he was staring into the fire; had not noticed her agitation. "You know that queer old clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, for you."

"I wanted it," said Esmé, fretfully.

"A note from Lady Blakeney, madame."

Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its plump softness, feeling the wad which the notes made. The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; refused to give it to the porter of the flats.

"Oh!" Esmé opened it, her back to her husband. There were bank notes, crisp, delightful; she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each. Denise was beginning the payment already.

"Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame will use the car to drive to luncheon. It is at Madame's service until five," Marie said.

"Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned round. "You have a lot of friends, my Butterfly."

Esmé crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell was gone. She wanted money, comfort, ease; the chance was hers, and she would take it.

The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke Holbrook, the wine merchant. He paid his cook a clerk's income, and she earned her salary elaborately. What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly flour-like, who shall grumble if it is flecked with truffles, cocks-combs and pistachio nuts. No gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary people who are impressed by magnificence talked in hushed tones of the cook.

The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; gold plate shone on the vast sideboard; orchids decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little woman who had married the big man obediently that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the magnificence placidly. She had a shrewd idea that outward show helped the business, and that they were not as rich as they seemed to be.

The dining-room had been opened into the study so that it ran right across the house, and to increase the apparent size at the end wall was a huge mirror reflecting the room.

They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook knew how to divide her guests. Esmé found herself one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young soldier vividly in love with the girl.

"Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of cream pies done up in colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?"

"Bertie has to go home." Esmé had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick and tired. "He doesn't like my going there."

"To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," Sybil Chauntsey broke in. "They have such fun there."

Her peach bloom deepened; the beauty of youth, which is as no other beauty, sparkled in her deep grey eyes.

The big dark man looked at her, his own eyes taking fire. These men delight in rosebuds, find an unflagging zest in seeing the tender petals unfold to their hot admiration.

"Easily managed," he said. "If Madame the mother permits."

Captain Knox, a mere no one, son of a hunting Irishman, flushed.

"It's not a nice house," he said. "I've heard of it. Don't go, Miss Chauntsey."

"Lila Navotsky will be there"—Jimmie turned to the girl, carelessly ignoring the man—"she'll dance. It will be rather a bright party. Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein is going, Lady Deverelle, and Loftus Laking, the actor. We'll have a moonlight dance, all costumes home made."

Fresh from the country, doing her first season, the great names dazzled the child. Mother's friends were so dull; the peach-bloom flush deepened, the sweet eyes flashed for Jimmie, who had watched so many flushes, seen so many bright eyes flash into his. Sybil was very pretty, soft and fresh as fruit just ripe; sun-kissed, unpowdered, roundly contoured.

With a smile Esmé saw that the conqueror's glances were no longer for her. He was growing fascinated by Sybil. Even the best of women hate to lose an admirer; no one knew better than Gore Helmsley how they will suddenly put good resolves aside to keep the slipping fancy. How many are morally lost because they fear to lose.

Young Knox turned to talk to Esmé, his handsome face troubled. A mere ordinary young fellow, capable of ordinary love, cleanly bred, cleanly minded, with nothing to offer the girl but the life of a marching soldier's wife, and some day a house on the shores of a lake far away in the west.

"It's—it's very rowdy, isn't it?" he asked.

But Esmé was not thinking of him.

"Oh, sometimes not," she said absently, eating a forced nectarine; "depends on the party there. Now they're moving."

Up to a drawing-room of oppressive luxury; the Staffordshire groups, the Dresden shepherdesses seemed larger than other people's; the brocades gleamed in their richness, the flowers stood in Venetian glasses; the whole room seemed to shake its wealth in your face, and to glitter and shine with colour. Coffee came in Dresden cups set in gold holders; sugar candy peeped from a gilt basin studded with dull stones. The cigarettes had their name blazoned over them in diamonds.

Luke Holbrook came among his guests, big, kind, frankly vulgar, redeemed by his good-natured eyes. Openly proud of seeing a Duchess in his drawing-room, pointing out to her a pair of historical figures which stood on the mantel-shelf.

"Wonderful they tell me," he said. "I don't know, but I like size when I buy."

"Yes," said the Duchess, blandly, looking round the room. "Yes. If you must pay thousands better pay them for two feet of glaze and colour than for two inches, no doubt."

"That's it," he said gaily, "that's it. Of course, you've such heaps of the stuff at Blenkalle. But my boy's collection has to be gathered now."

Holbrook's pure wines gained many orders in his own house. He had stored away, kept for customers with palates, a few casks of port which was not branded and flavoured for the English taste, some good hock and claret. But the pure wines he made his millions off did not deserve their title.

Esmé, sipping Turkish coffee, saw Sybil Chauntsey come hurrying to her mother. The girl was fresh and sweet, heads turned as she passed.

"Oh, Mumsie, Captain Gore Helmsley has telephoned. Oh, Mumsie, they've asked me to the Bellews for Saturday to Monday. Oh, may I go?"

"But alone, Sybil," said her mother.

"Mrs Carteret will take me. I'll ask her. Oh, Mumsie. Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein will be there, and Madame Navotsky, Lord Ralph Crellton, Lady Deverelle. Mumsie, I might be asked to Deverelle if I meet her."

Princes, countesses, dancers. Might not Sybil attract the attention of Lord Ralph, who would one day be a Marquis. "But, aren't there stories?" Mrs Chauntsey wavered.

Jimmie strolled across. "Mrs Bellew is so anxious for your daughter to go to her," he said. "It's rather an honour, they are generally full up, and there's a dance this time."

He omitted to remark that his reply down the telephone had been: "Who? I don't know the brat. Oh, send her along; I'll invite. Suppose you'd sulk and wouldn't manage the cotillon if I refused. Can't you let girls alone, Jimmie? Yes, I've got the address—I'll invite—bother her!"

Mrs Chauntsey wavered, gave way, turned to a stout lady who was anxiously waiting for the brougham she still clung to, and told her.

"I wouldn't let my girls walk past the garden wall," said Lady Adderley, grimly. "Sybil's a child, too."

Mrs Chauntsey grew doubtful again. This stout and dowdy woman held the keys of the dullest and most exclusive houses. And Sybil had once been asked to luncheon there on Sunday; but a Prince, and a future Marquis—one must give a girl her chance.

Esmé was going on to a tea-party. She sat down by the open window, looking out at the Park, a dull place now, its afternoon hour not yet upon it.

"Rather full here." Jimmie Gore Helmsley's dark face appeared close to her; he pulled up a chair and sat down. "Feel as if we're all Aunt Sallies being pelted with gold; the riches jump out and hit you in the face."

"He's kind," said Esmé, remembering her hock.

"Kind? Oh, yes! he can be! Appreciate," he muttered, "what I've done coming here—to meet you, eh? I've talked to Lady Susan and Lady Hebe Ploddy for ten minutes, and I've only just escaped from the horns of Lady Hebe's jersey cattle. They have been going out for ten years," said Jimmie, "and Mamma, her grace, still calls them 'my baby girls.' They are coming this way," he added, "with the pigs and cows in the leash of their minds. Are you off it—hipped?" he whispered softly, "you look pale."

Whispers had gained him many things in life; a sudden drop of voice, a change of tone, an intimacy as it were of sympathy. But Esmé scarcely noticed it. She was too carelessly selfish to dream of the inconveniences of a lover, even if she had not been fond of Bertie.

"Coming Saturday," he asked, "to the Bungalow?"

"Oh, I suppose so. I've promised that child. Where am I going to? To buy a toy which has taken my fancy. Yes, you may come with me."

Half an hour later one of the new crisp notes had gone for the emerald clasp, and the Ladies Susan and Hebe Ploddy, coming by chance into the shop, told all their friends that Captain Gore Helmsley had given it to that Mrs Carteret.