The Oyster. Peer
sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the flat. She laughed as he did accounts.
"Butterfly, 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 Esmé'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." Esmé'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 Esmé wretched.
"I want to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost whimpered to her glass.
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.
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